UC-NRLF 


B    3    5Sb    EST 


'W^' 


m 


y 


i 


^Jin 


•i 


wim, 


CiEM 


3^Aii^ 


SP 


''.'.  i.^'  ,  ^.u\- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

I'Irs.  Ear  tie  tt  B.  Heard 


.•o 


/\}. 


v^r. 


^ 


llfice  oFt'ie  Dull  uc Co. 


'#. 


NEW    YORK 
LAMPORT,  BLAKEMAN   &  LAW. 

N9  S.Park  riace. 


F  L  OE  A'S     GEM; 


OR    THE 


9 


FOR 


ALL    SEASONS 


BEAUTIFULLY    EMBELLISHED 


EDITED   BY 
ALFRED     A  .     PHILIPS 


NEW    YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY   LAMPORT,   BLAKEMAN   &   LAW, 

No.    8    PARK    PLACE. 


LOAN  STAC^ 


p/\/£ 


CONTENTS 


THE  FAIRIE'S  SEARCH 

Mrs.  Emelip^e  Smitb 

.9 

1"0  ********* 

A.  A.  P. 

41 

THE  MOSS  ROSE.           .                       ... 

B.    J.    LOSSI.NG.       . 

.  42 

THE  TEA  ROSE 

Mr.s.  H.  E.  Beechee  Stone.                 43 

THE  ROSE.                                              ... 

L.  E.  L.  . 

.  51 

THE  YOUNG  ROSE 

ib 

ROSE  OF  THE  DESERT. 

.  52 

THE  ROSE  OF  MAY 

Mary  Howrrr. 

53 

THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSE. 

COWPER.    . 

.  56 

THE  PRETTY  ROSE  TREE 

. 

58 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE. 

Mrs.  Seba  Smith. 

.  59 

THE  TULIP.     .           : 

B.   J.    LOSSING. 

61 

ON  PLANTING  A  TULIP  ROOT.       . 

J.  M.        . 

.  66 

TO  THE  CACTUS  SPECIOSISSIMUS.     . 

Mrs.  Sigourney. 

.        68 

THE  HYACINTH 

From  the  Gee.man  o 

F  Krujlmaciier.     70 

THE  SPRIG  OF  WINTERGREEN. 

C.  F.  Hoffma.n. 

.        73 

THE  BLUE  BELL 

R.  T.        . 

.  74 

FLOWERS 

A.  M.  M.       . 

76 

FLOWERS  AND  FAIRIES 

Kate.        . 

.  77 

THE  AIYRTLE 

Mo.ntgomery. 

.        80 

THE  WATER-LILY 

Mrs.  Hemajjs.     . 

.  82 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 

George  Croly. 

84 

THE  SNOWDROP 

L.  E.  L.  . 

.  85 

THE  NIGHT-SHADE 

Barry  Cornwall. 

.        87 

COWSLIPS • 

Howirr.   . 

.  88 

GOSSIP  WITH  A  BOUQUET  OF  SPRING  FLOWERS 

L.  H.  Sigour.ney. 

.        90 

THE  VASE  OF  FLOWERS.     .                       .  ■         . 

Ianthe.     . 

.  94 

FLOWERS 

.        95 

WILD  ORANGE  GROVES 

.  96 

FLOWERS .           . 

J.  B.  P. 

.        97 

THE  SUN  FLOWER 

M. 

.  98 

TO  THE  HAREBELL 

99 

THE  CHINA  STAR. 

E.  C.  S.  . 

.100 

TO  THE  BRAMBLE  FLOWER 

E.  Elliott.    . 

.      102 

VIOLETS .           • 

L.  E.  L. 

.104 

C89 


EMBELLISHMENTS 


PAGE 

ROSES,  -  ........  Fiontispiecr 

THE  FAIRY'S  BOWER, '        -  -      9 

BENGAL  ROSES, 43 

TULIPS,    -  -    .  ....  .  -  61 

MORNING  GLORY  AND  PEONY, 68 

FLEMISH  PINK,  -  -  -     ' Tg" 

MALLOW, 85 

ROSE,  NARCISSUS,  OLICANDER  AND  SWEET-SMELLING  PEA,  -  -     94 

PURPLE  BENGAL  ROSE  AND  CHINA  STAR, 100 

WHITE  ALTHEA,  CHIMNEY  CAMPANULA,  INDIA  SENECIO.      -  -  -  102 


PREFACE 


Who  is  there  that  loves  not  flowers  ?  Who  is  there  that  can  look  upon 
these  gems  of  nature,  inhale  their  fragrance,  and  not  feel  his  heart  expand, 
and  his  soul  quicken  with  pleasing  emoiions  ?  If  there  be  such  an  one,  un- 
bending indeed  must  be  his  nature,  cold  his  affections,  and  we  feel  inclined  to 
place  him  among  those  of  whom  the  immortal  bard  of  Avon  has  said — having 
no  music  in  their  souls — "  are  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems  and  spoils." 

Flowers  have  ever  been  emblems  of  the  impulses  and  feelings  of  the  heart, 
as  well  as  symbols  of  the  affections,  passions  and  sorrows  of  the  soul.     They 

" are  love's  truest  language ;  they  betray 


Like  the  divining  rods  of  Magi  old 

Where  priceless  wealth  lies  buried,  not  of  gold, 

But  love — strong  love,  that  never  can  decay !" 

They  speak  of  love  in  tones  more  eloquent  and  winning  than  the  choicest 
phrases  or  the  roundest  periods.  Who  does  not  know  that  the  Rose  is  the 
flowers  of  Venus,  the  flower  of  love  ?  Who  does  not  know  that  when  that 
fragrant,  blushing  symbol,  a  Hose  Bud,  is  placed  in  the  hand  of  the  fair  one 
who  has  ensnared  the  heart  of  the  donor,  it  whispers 

"  I  die  for  thy  sweet  love,  the  ground 
Not  panteth  for  the  Summer  rain, 
As  I  for  one  soft  look  of  thine  .'" 

The  tale  of  love  thus  sweetly  told,  has  won  the  heart  it  sought ;  the  "  layde 
faire"  places  the  beauteous  missive  upon  her  snowy  breast,  from  her  garden 
culls  a  messenger  which  blushingly  tells  the  enraptured  lover,  "  your  senti- 
ments meet  with  a  return,"  and  a  China  Star  bears  to  his  delighted  gaze  the 
reply  of  his  mistress — 

"  Yes  I  am  thine  !     Upon  thy  bosom  leaning, 
No  grief  hath  power  to  damp  my  fervent  bliss 
Nor  can  such  love  to  thee  be  overwheening — 
Thou  art  deserving  all,  and  more  than  this  !" 


It  is  probable  that  a  distinct  language,  was  first  given  to  flowers  by  the 
women  of  the  East,  arising  doubtless  from  their  strict  seclusion  and  ignorance 
of  writing,  combined  with  a  vivid  imagination  which  habitually  personifies 
every  object.  It  is  true  that  by  these  flowers  they  can  convey  only  general 
ideas,  such  as  "  I  love  thee  dearly  ;"  "  Thy  coldness  grieves  me  ;"  «  Tsym- 
pathise  in  thy  distress  ;"  &c.,  but  their  dull  unwearied  round  of  life  leaves  but 
little  else  to  impart. 

The  Bouquet  which  is  used  as  an  epistle  is  called  Selam. 

This  language  is  also  local  and  arbitrary,  so  that  a  Bouquet  which  would 
be  readily  interpreted  by  a  Persian  maiden,  would  be  unintelligible  to  a  Turk- 
ish female.  A  celebrated  traveller  thus  describes  the  manner  in  which  a 
Turkish  lady  of  fashion  is  wooed  by  an  invisible  lover.  "  In  the  progress  of 
the  courtship,  a  Hyacinth  is  occasionally  dropped  in  her  path  by  an  unknown 
hand,  and  the  female  attendant  at  the  bath  does  the  office  of  a  Mercury,  and 
talks  of  a  certain  effendi  seeking  a  lady's  love,  as  a  Nightingale  aspiring  to  the 
affections  of  a  Rose." 

All  nations  and  ages  have  regarded  these  beauties  of  nature  with  pleasure 
and  reverence  ;  the  Romans  and  Greeks  acknowledged  a  goddess  who  pre- 
sided over  flowers  and  blossoms,  whose  festivals  were  Celebrated  with  pomp 
and  rejoicings.  In  more  modern  days,  flowers  have  been  cultivated  from  a 
love  of  the  beautiful  and  a  taste  for  refinement,  while  at  the  same  time,  a 
vocabulary  has  been  established  which  ascribes  to  each  class,  a  sentiment  or  a 
moral.  The  Dahlia  denotes  elegance  and  dignity  ;  the  Daisy,  beauty  and 
innocence  ;  the  Haiothorn,  hope  ;  the  White  Lily,  purity  ;  the  Lily  of  the 
Valley,  the  heart  withering  in  secret ;  Malloios,  a  sweet  disposition ;  the 
Nightshade,  dark  thoughts  ;  Orange  Flowers,  woman's  worth ;  the  Peony, 
ostentation  ;  a  Rose  Bud,  a  confession  of  love  ;  the  Tulip,  beautiful  eyes  ;  the 
Violet,  faithfulness  ;  the  Water  Lily,  eloquence  ;  and  so  to  each  flower  is 
allotted  a  distinct  signification. 

The  mind  instinctively  associates  some  meaning  according  to  the  appeal - 
ance  or  fragrance  of  the  flower,  forming  a  natural,  but  impressive  language, 
which  speaks  to  the  heart  rather  than  to  the  ear.  Can  any  thing  more  touch- 
mgly  convey  the  idea  of  purity,  than  the  beautiful  White  Lily  ?  Look  into 
its  snow-white  cavity !  inhale  its  delicious  fragrance,  and  nothing  but  the 
sweetest,  holiest  emotions  will  be  awakened. 

"  Ask  me  not  why  I  should  love  her ; 
Look  upon  these  soul-iull  eyes ! 


PREFACE.  VU 

Look  while  mirth  or  feeling  move  her, 

And  see  there  how  sweetly  rise 
Thoughts  gay  and  gentle  from  a  breast, 
Which  is  of  innocence  the  nest — 
Which,  though  each  joy  were  from  it  fied. 
By  truth  would  still  be  tenanted  !" 

In  gazing  upon  flowers,  the  old  and  the  young,  the  grave  and  the  gay,  are 
furnished  with  objects  of  sympathy  calculated  to  awaken  the  tenderest 
affections  of  the  heart.  To  the  aged,  the  glowing  colors  of  the  Amarinth 
speak  of  immortality ;  to  the  young,  the  White  Pink  exhibits  true  and  pure 
affection  ;  to  the  grave  and  serious,  the  Balm  speaks  of  social  intercourse  ; 
and  the  Coreopsis  bids  the  gay  be  always  cheerful ;  so  that  every  disposition 
and  mood  finds  pleasure  and  instruction  amid  the  beauties  with  which  Provi- 
dence has  blessed  the  Earth  to  delight  our  eyes  and  incite  us  to  purity  of 
thought  and  action. 

We  have  culled  from  nature's  gay  parterre  some  of  her  glorious  gems,  and 
arranging  them  by  the  hand  of  art,  present  our  "  BOUQUET"  as  an  imita- 
tion of  the  beauties  with  which  we  are  delighted  only  during  a  brief  season 
of  the  year,  so  that  when  the  chilly  blasts  of  Winter  deprive  us  of  their 
dewy  fragrance,  we  may  still  gaze  with  pleasure  upon  them  as  in  a  mirror, 
and  cheat  our  senses  into  a  dream  of  their  reality. 

We  have  endeavoured  to  illustrate  the  flowers  we  have  thus  "  transferred," 
by  lessons  and  precepts  instructive  and  entertaining,  and  while  we  have 
sought  the  aid  of  talent  and  genius  of  our  own  day  and  presented  original 
productions  procured  expressly  for  this  work,  we  have  also  incorporated 
selections  from  standard  poets,  which  notwithstanding  they  have  already 
appeared  before  the  public,  we  trust  will*  be  found  to  possess  a  sufficient  merit 
to  appear  again  and  be  the  more  highly  appreciated  when  thus  illustrated  by 
the  hand  of  art. 

"  THE  BOUQUET"  is  before  yuu  fair  reader  ;  there  is  many  a  lesson  ana 
many  a  moral  to  be  found  within  its  pages,  and  if  in  it  you  can  find  where- 
with to  cheer  an  hour  of  sadness,  and  rise  after  a  perusal  with  ennobled  and 
grateful  feelings  towards  a  "  '.nd  Providence,  our  end  has  been  attained. 

A.  A.  P. 

New  York,  August  1846. 


TO    THE     LADIES. 

THE    F  A  1  K  E  S  r    F  L  (J  W  E  R  S    OP    CREATION, 

THIS    V  O  L  U  M  E 

ILLUSTKATING    THE    KI.OWKKS    OF    NATURE'S   GARDEN 

IS    KESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED 

BY    THEIR    DEVOTED    A  D  M 1 R  E  R 

THE    EDITOR 


THE  BOUQUET. 


THE  FAIRY'S  SEARCH. 

BY  MRS.  EMELINE    S.   SMITH. 

The  fragrant  shade  of  a  rose-clad  bower 

Was  a  Fairy's  chosen  home, 

Where  she  gaily  passed  each  summer  hour 

With  never  a  wish  to  roam; 

Her  chief  delight  was  to  watch  with  care 

Each  beautiful  bud  unfolding  there. 

And  to  guard,  from  every  blighting  spell. 

The  blossoms  that  she  loved  so  well. 

Her  presence  was  a  magic  charm 

That  banished  every  power  of  harm ; 

No  wandering  footstep  dare  intrude 

To  mar  that  pleasant  solitude  ; 

No  mortal  hand  could  pluck  a  flower 

That  bloomed  in  that  enchanted  bower ; 

No  evil  influence  could  appear 

While  she,  the  guardian,  lingered  near. 

But  needful,  as  the  breath  of  Spring 


10  THE    BOUQUET. 

Is  to  the  Violet's  blossoming, 
Was  her  protecting  power. 

Alas !  the  Fay, 
One  tranquil  night,  was  lured  aAvay 
From  that  sweet  home.     A  merry  band 
Of  sister  Fairies,  hand  in  hand, 
Came  dancing  to  her  rosy  bower 
And  tempted  her,  in  evil  hour, 
To  hie  afar  to  a  silvery  stream 
To  revel  and  sport  'neath  the  moon's  bright  beam, 

'Twas  such  an  eve  as  Fairies  love — 
All  cloudless  smiled  the  heaven  above, 
And  gentle  zephyrs  wandered  by 
With  the  witching  tone  of  a  lover's  sigh, 
Or  paused  awhile,  in  their  wayward  flight. 
To  kiss  some  flower  of  brightest  bloom 
Which  received  the  caress  in  mute  delight 
Then  paid  it  back  in  a  breath  of  perfume. 
The  minstrel  night-bird's  plaintive  song 
So  sweetly  broke  o'er  dewy  plains 
That  echo  kept  the  music  long 
Then  sent  it  forth  in  softer  strains  ; 
So  calm  the  sleeping  waters  lay. 
So  true  they  mirror'd  back  the  glow 
Of  sky  and  moon  and  starry  ra}', 
There  seem'd  another  heaven  beh.'>. 
As  pure,  as  fair,  as  full  of  love 
As  the  blue  boundless  heaven  above. 
And  Nature  was  as  perfect,  then, 
In  that  hush'd,  holy  evening  hour. 
And  stainless,  as  she  e'er  had  been 
When  first  the  Great  Creative  Power 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH  .  ]l 

Called  all  her  magic  charms  to  birth 
And  made  a  paradise  of  Earth. 

'Mid  scene  thus  fair,  the  sportive  Fay 

Forgot  her  treasures  far  away, 

And  lingered  late,  and  listened  long 

To  pleasure's  soft  beguiling  song, 

Until  its  witching  cadence  stole 

Like  fascination  o'er  her  soul. 

She  woke  as  dreamers  oft-times  wake 

From  some  dear  vision  of  delight. 

When  morn's  intruding  footsteps  break 

The  airy  structures  of  the  night; 

She  woke  from  rapture's  tli rilling  charnt 

To  thoughts  of  care  and  fears  of  harm. 

With  sad  forebodings  for  her  bower. 

Neglected  since  the  t^^  iliglit  hour. 

She  left  the  Fairies  magic  ring 

And,  like  a  bird  on  tireless  wing, 

Flew  fast  a^^ay — but  morning's  eye 

Looked  brightly  o'er  the  eastern  sky 

Ere  she  regain'd  her  home.     Ah  !  tlieiu 

How  sadly  chang'd  appear'd  the  scene  I 

How  dark,  hou  desolate  and  lone. 

Like  some  deserted  garden  bound 

Where  Autumn  ^^inds,  in  mournful  tone, 

Wail  o'er  the  w  ither'd  leaflets  strown 

In  saddest  ruin  round. 

Some  daring  hand  had  stripp'd  the  bower 

Of  every  beauteous  bud  and  flower 

And  borne  them  all  away. 

Far  oif,  amid  the  busy  crowd 

Of  a  throng'd  cily,  now  they  smil'd, 


12  THE   BOUQUET. 

And  pleas'd  the  happy  and  the  proud, 
Or  solaced  sorrow's  child. 

As  storm-clouds  pass  o'er  summer  skies, 

Dimming  their  gay  and  brilliant  dies, 

So  pass'd  the  gloomy  shade  of  woe 

Across  the  Fairy's  radiant  brow. 

The  while  she  gazed,  in  mute  despair, 

Around  the  dwelling  once  so  fair ; 

Awhile  she  mus'd  ;  awhile  she  mourn  d 

Upon  the  wreck  and  ruin  near  her  ; 

But  soon,  Uke  dawning  light,  return'd 

Hope's  gentle  smile  to  cheer  her. 

And  she  resolv'd,  despite  the  pain 

Or  peril  such  attempt  might  cost. 

To  roam  thro'  many  a  varied  scene 

In  search  of  the  sweet  flowers  she'd  lost. 

Then,  quick  as  thought,  she  plum'd  her  wmg 

And,  like  a  rosy  cloud  of  even 

Floating  upon  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Rose  gracefully  to  the  blue  Heaven 

And  soar'd  away.     Onward  she  flew, 

O'er  hill  and  vale  and  streamlet  blue, 

Nor  paus'd  until  she  spied  afar. 

Soft  gleaming  thro'  the  lucid  air. 

The  city's  towers  and  temples  fair. 

With  joy  she  hails  the  welcome  sight 

And,  wearied  with  her  rapid  flight. 

She  gladly  gains  a  lofty  tower 

And  folds  the  drooping  wing,  whose  power. 

Is  for  a  season  lost.     With  timid  mein 

She  looks  upon  the  wildering  scene 

That  meets  her  eye  below. 


THE   FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  ^3 

A  motley  crowd,  a  mingled  throng 
Moves  slowly  by,  or  sweeps  along 
Like  clouds  when  wild-winds  blow. 
Misfortune's  child,  with  pallid  face. 
And  wasted  form  and  weary  pace. 
Moves  on  beside  the  rich  and  great. 
Whose  happier  brows  and  haughtier  state 
In  mournful  contrast  shine. 
Old  age  with  furrow'd  brow,  and  eye 
Dim  with  the  shadowy  mist  of  Time ; 
Youth,  radiant  as  the  cloudless  sky 
Of  Sumn^.er  in  its  prime  ; 
And  sportive  childhood,  fresh  and  gay 
As  blossoms  in  the  morning's  beam, 
All  mingle  in  that  crowded  way 
Like  beiugs  of  a  dream. 

Long  gaz'd  the  Fay,  with  wondering  eye. 
And  half  forgot  the  flowers  she  souglit 
'Til  a  soft  breeze  that  wander'd  by 
Their  well  known  perfume  brought : 
And  now  she  sees  a  radiant  throng 
Of  youths  and  maidens  sweep  along. 
Their  forms  are  deck'd  in  raiment  bright ; 
Their  brows  are  beaming  with  delight ; 
Their  footsteps  move  to  joyous  measure  ; 
Their  hearts  are  tuned  to  notes  of  pleasure--- 
So  gay  their  smiles,  so  pure  their  mirth, 
They  seem  not  children  of  the  Earth, 
But  brighter,  happier  spirits,  come 
From  some  far-off,  celestial  home. 
Some  realm  where  mpture  reigns  supreme 
And  life  i.-;  all  one  blissful  dream, 


14  THE    BOUQUET. 

They  dwell,  in  truth,  in  such  a  sphere — 
Youth's  fairy  land  ! — Ah,  never  fear 
Or  care  or  sorrow's  hand 
Can  touch  the  dwellers  of  that  clime  ; 
Secure  in  pleasure's  spells  they  stand, 
Defying  all  save  Time  ! 

The  gay  ones  pause  beside  the  church ; 

Each  bows  a  reverent  head 

And  passes  neath  the  lofty  arch 

With  slow  and  solemn  tread. 

With  folded  wing  and  noiseless  pace 

The  Fay,  too,  seeks  that  worship-place, 

Enters,  and  marks  with  mute  surprise 

The  holy  scene  that  meets  her  eyes. 

Before  the  sacred  altar  stand 

A  noble  youth  and  gentle  maid  ; — 

Eye  meeting  eye,  and  hand  in  hand. 

And  truth  on  either  brow  displayed. 

They  seem,  by  Heaven,  design'd  to  move 

Together  o'er  life's  rugged  Avay, 

That  clouded  path  which  w^edded  love 

Can  render  radiant  as  the  day. 

Fair  was  the  bride  ; — youth's  holy  charm 

Lent  all  its  witchery  to  her  form  ; 

And  beauty's  deepest  spell  was  seen 

In  down-cast  eye  and  modest  mein. 

A  graceful  robe  of  stainless  white 

Fell  round  her,  as  the  moon's  soft  light 

Falls  o'er  the  Earth  in  cloudless  night. 

A  floating  veil  of  silvery  hue 

Whose  folds,  her  brow  look'd  lovelier  tliroug 

Hnn!'-,  liU{^  (lie  niist  on  iDOiiiitaia  side. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  15 

And  heighten'd  charms  it  sought  to  hide. 

A  cluster  of  white  Roses  lay 

Upon  her  bosom's  snowy  vest, 

And  well  the  graceful  things  became 

Their  beauteous  place  of  rest. 

In  truth  it  was  a  holy  sight 
To  see  that  youthful  maiden  there, 
With  heart  so  fond  and  hopes  so  bright, 
With  form  and  soul  alike  so  fair, 
Breathing  in  accents,  firm  though  low, 
Affection's  sweetest,  holiest  vow. 
Ah  !  wedlock  is  a  hallow'd  ray 
That  cheers  us  on  our  pilgrim  way ; 
That  adds  to  bliss  a  brighter  beam 
And  softens  even  sorroAv's  dream. 
That  sacred  fetter  of  the  heart 
Is  dear  in  Hymen's  early  hours. 
When  Earth  still  wears  its  Eden-liglif 
And  life  is  yet  a  feast  of  flowers ; 
But  better,  loftier,  holier  far 
Is  the  fond  tie  in  later  years. 
When  it  becomes  the  changeless  star 
That  guides  us  thro'    "  a  vale  of  tears." 
Then,  like  the  rain-bow's  brilliant  dye's 
It  brightens  e'en  the  stormiest  skies. 

The  vows  are  said  ;  the  twain  are  one  ; 

The  bridal  band' has  turn'd  away  ; — 

Like  some  bright  dream,  when  sleep  is  gone, 

Fades  now  the  vision  gay. 

The  Fairy,  who,  with  tearful  eye, 

Had  mark'd  the  solemn  rite^, 


16  THE   BOUQUET. 

Turns  from  the  scene,  with  gentle  sigh, 

Thus  musing  on  the  flow'rets  bright 

That  deck'd  the  beautious  bride  ; 

"  So  lovingly  they  seem'd  to  rest 

"  Upon  her  fair  and  sinless  breast, 

"  I  could  not  take  them  thence — ah  !  there, 

*'  More  bright  than  in  my  bower  they  were  ; 

"  Methought  they  look'd  as  born  to  grace 

"  Her  radiant  form  and  blooming  face — 

"  The  gentle  sunhght  of  her  eye 

"  Beam'd  o'er  them  like  the  genial  sky 

"  And  seem'd  their  native  ray  ; 

*'  Her  balmy  sighs  play'd  round  their  leaves, 

"  As,  in  the  hush  of  summer  eves, 

"  The  whispering  south  winds  play ; 

"  And  from  her  glowing  cheek  they  won 

"  A  hue,  like  that  the  setting  Sun 

•'  Sheds  o'er  the  smiling  Earth  : — 

"  'Twas  well  to  deck  that  lovely  bride 

"  With  my  sweet  flowers ;  for  thus  allied 

*'  To  beauty,  purity  and  worth, 

*'  They  seem'd,  indeed,  like  gifts  divine, 

"  Plac'd  on  a  fair  and  fitting  shrine 

"  As  offerings  to  Heaven." 

The  musing  Fay 
Now  plum'd  her  wing  and  soar'd  away. 
As  on  she  flew,  hope's  witching  strain 
Awakened  pleasant  thoughts  again, 
And  bade  her  seek  in  other  scenes 
The  treasures  of  her  bower. 
She  paus'd  within  a  narrow  street 
Where  day's  bright  smile  but  faintly  fell ; 
Where  Heaven's  pure  air  could  rarely  gre«'» 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  17 

The  pallid  beings  doom'd  to  dwell 

"Within  the  gloomy  bound. — Ah  !  they 

Who  gladly  hail  each  new-born  day 

From  some  sweet  home  on  hill  or  plain, 

Who  rove  at  will  by  pleasant  streams, 

Know  little  of  the  weary  pain, 

The  moody  thoughts  and  feverish  dreams 

Of  those  whose  artificial  life 

Is  pass'd  'mid  busy  care  and  strife  ; 

Who  toil,  from  murky  morn  to  night, 

In  darken'd  shops  or  gloomy  lanes, 

Scarce  knowing  whether  Summer's  light 

Or  Winter's  darkness  reigns. 

They  ne'er  can  feel  the  pulse  and  heart 

To  rapture's  thrilling  measure  start 

In  Nature's  genial  hours  ; 

They  ne'er  can  feel  Spring's  balmy  air 

Float  round  them,  with  its  perfume  rare 

And  joy-bestowing  powers ; 

To  them  the  ever-varying  year, 

With  all  its  changes  that  beguile. 

Presents  one  aspect  dull  and  drear. 

One  face  without  a  smile. 

The  w  andering  Fairy  staid  her  flight 
Near  a  low  dweUing — with  a  light 
And  noiseless  tread  she  trac'd  her  way 
O'er  creaking  step,  and  passage  grey 
With  the  dark  hues  of  Time. 
She  gain'd  at  length  a  humble  room 
Whose  cheerless  air  of  sombre  gloom 
Might  well  befit  the  lonely  cell 
Where  world-forgetting  hermits  dwell; 


18  THE    BOUQUET. 

There,  gazing  timidly  around, 

The  objects  of  her  search  she  found  ; 

And  o'er  them  bendeth  one  whose  brow 

Wears  the  high  impress  stamp'd  by  thought. 

Whose  eye  is  kindled  by  the  glow 

From  the  pure  flame  of  genius  caught. 

With  looks  that  rapturous  feelings  tell 

He  gazes  on  the  flow  ers  before  him  ; 

They  seem,  like  some  magician's  spell, 

To  bid  enchantment  hover  o'er  him. 

And  mark,  as  oft  aside  he  turns 

To  trace  his  thoughts  upon  the  page, 

With  holier  light  his  dark  eye  burns 

And  loftier  dreams  his  soul  enffaefe. 

Doth  not  the  pale  brow'd  student  hnu, 

In  those  fair,  fragrant  things, 

A  hidden  charm  that  wakes  his  mind 

To  glorious  imaginings  ? 

He  is  an  ardent  worshipper 

At  Nature's  sacred  shrine, 

But  kept,  by  adverse  fortune,  far 

From  all  her  works  divine, 

His  spirit  pines  like  prison'd  bird, 

'Til  wishes  wild  and  vain  are  stirr'd 

Within  his  restless  mind. 

He  longs  to  be  away,  away. 

By  lofty  mount  or  verdant  plain. 

And  feel  the  breath  of  Heaven  play 

Fresh  o'er  his  fever'd  brain  ; 

He  longs  to  catch  a  living  beam 

From  Nature's  radiant  eye 

To  light  his  soul's  poetic  dream 

With  inspiration  high  ! 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH  19 

With  inspiration  high  ! 

But  ah  he  vainly  longs  for  this— 

Not  his  the  lot,  not  his  the  hliss 

To  dwell  where  he  might  rove  at  will 

By  nmrnmring  stream  or  mossy  hill, 

And  feel  their  charms  his  spirit  thrill 

With  thought's  sublimest  strains. 

And,  thus,  denied  the  lot  he  loves, 

He  feels  as  exil'd  from  his  home 

And  cherishes  the  lowliest  thing 

That  can  a  shadowy  picture  bring 

Of  the  beloved  and  beauteous  scenes 

He  visits  only  in  his  dreams. 

Thus  How  ers,  to  him,  are  like  the  chime 

Of  his  own  native  melodies 

To  wanderer  in  a  foreign  clime ; 

They  image  to  his  soul  the  light 

Of  lOvely  scenes  afar 

As  truly  as  the  tranquil  lake 

Reflects  the  twilight  Star. 

Tho'  voiceless,  for  his  ear  they  have 

A  language  all  their  own. 

And,  as  the  shell  from  ocean's  cave 

Still  murmurs  in  melodious  tone 

Of  its  far  distant  home, 

So,  eloquently  whisper  they 

Of  their  bright  birth-place  far  away. 

No  marvel  then  the  poet  loves 

These  "  children  of  the  Sun  and  shower," 

No  marvel  then  their  presence  moves 

His  spirit  with  resistless  power. 

The  Fairy  mark'd  tlie  holy  flame 


20  THE   BOUQUET. 

That  kindled  in  the  poet's  eye, 

And  felt  she  scarce  could  wish  to  claim 

Her  flowers  from  such  a  destiny. 

"  Forever  must  my  bower  remain 

"  Without  a  Rose  to  blossom  near 

"  E'er  I  can  deck  it  o'er  again 

"With  treasures  gather'd  here. 

"  No !  let  the  minstrel's  ardent  gaze 

*'  Beam  on  their  beauties  \ong, 

"  Though  lowly,  they  have  power  to  raise 

"  High  thoughts  for  tuneful  song ; 

"  And  though  so  perishable,  still 

"  They  may  inspire  a  lay 

"  Whose  melody  the  world  shall  thrill 

"  'Til  Time's  remotest  day  ! 

"  Then  let  the  priest  of  Nature  keep 

"  Her  offspring  fair — for  it  is  meet 

"  Their  incense  breath  should  round  him  float 

"  And  mingle  with  the  anthems  sweet 

"  That,  from  his  soul's  pure  alter  rise, 

"  Like  grateful  offerings  to  the  skies  !" 

And  musing  thus  the  Fairy  flew 

From  the  Bard's  dwelling,  to  renew 

Her  fond  pursuit.     Witli  wondering  air 

She  paus'd  beside  a  mansion  fair. 

As  palaces  in  sunny  lands 

That  stately  home  was  bright 

With  the  rich  treasures  wealth  commands 

And  gems  that  taste  and  art  delight 

To  lavish  on  their  shrine. 

It  seem'd  that  pleasure's  thrilling  song 

Might  ever  echo  round  those  walls 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  21 

And  hope  and  peace  and  joy  belong 

To  all  wiio  trod  those  halls ; 

But  ah  !  no  mortal  home  is  free 

From  care's  intrusive  form  ; 

And  never  human  heart  can  be 

Exempt  from  sorrow's  storm. 

Within  a  large  and  lofty  room 

Where  mocking  splendor's  smil'd, 

A  mother  sat  in  grief  and  gloom 

And  sorrow'd  o'er  her  child  : — 

Not  o'er  her  child — but  o'er  the  clay 

That,  when  the  yester-morn  had  birth, 

Enshrin'd  a  "  gem  of  purest  ray," 

A  pearl  of  priceless  worth. 

A  Mighty  Power  hath  claim'd  the  gem, 

With  purpose  good  and  wise, 

And  set  it  in  a  diadem 

Whose  light  illumes  the  skies. 

The  mother  knows  her  pearl  will  shine 

Far  brighter  in  its  home  above, 

Yet  must  her  spirit  long  repine 

For  that  which  woke  its  fondest  love. 

The  rifled  casket  still  is  dear 

Although  its  light  is  fled, 

And  mourning  love  must  drop  a  tear 

Above  the  early  dead. 

With  eyes  that  rain  like  Summer  showers. 

With  trembling  hand  and  anguish'd  face. 

The  mother  now,  with  clustering  flowers 

Bedeck's  her  child's  last  dwelling  place. 

Ah,  see  how  fair  his  pallid  brow 

Looks  in  that  rosy  garland  now  ! 

And  mark  what  life-like  hue  is  caught 


23  ^  THE    BOUQUET. 

By  voiceless  lip,  and  moveless  cheek, 

As  if  again  the  spirit  wrought 

Within  its  temple,  and  would  speak 

Some  ssveet  and  pleasant  thought ! 

'Tis  strange  how  much  of  life  and  light 

And  beauty  those  fresh  flow'rets  give  ; 

They  make  the  clay-cold  features  bright 

And  whisper  that  the  lost  doth    ive  ! 

So  lair  the  dear  deception  grows 

That  the  pale  mother's  bosom  glows 

With  a  faint  feeling,  almost  joy. 

While  gazing  on  her  beauteous  boy. 

More  hopeful  now  her  watch  she  keeps, 

More  calmly  views  his  lingering  smile 

Which  seems  to  say  he  only  sleeps, 

Sleeps  calm  and  dreams  of  Heaven  the  while  I 

"  Aye,  strew  them  o'er  the  silent  head 

"  And  lay  them  on  the  quiet  breast ; 

"  Meet  emblems  of  the  early  dead ; 

"  Fit  offerings  for  their  place  of  rest. 

"  Let  none  remove  those  fragrant  things— 

"  Affection's  votive  offerings — 

"  From  the  pale  clay  ;  there  let  them  fade  ; 

"  And  when  within  the  grave  they're  laid, 

"  Memory  shall  oft  the  lost  restore, 

"  And  paint  him  as  he  look'd  before 

"  With  the  sweet  garland  round  his  brow 

"  And  his  lip  wreath'd  in  smiles. 

"  Thus  shall  the  mourning  mother  borrow 

"  A  pleasant  thought  to  soothe  her  sorrow, 

"  And  deem  her  child  was  fitly  dress'd 

"To  seek  the  presence  of  the  bless'd. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  23 

"  And  join  the  angel-band  !" 

The  Fay 
Thus  said,  then  sadly  tiim'd  away 
And,  ^vith  a  drooping  heart  and  wing, 
Resuni'd  again  her  w^andering. 
And  now^  she  seeks  a  home  of  sin 
Which  veileth  mournful  scenes  within. 
Like  stream  whose  sunlit  surface  hides 
The  gloom  that  in  its  depth  abides. 
There,  in  that  dw  elling's  fatal  walls, 
Virtue  a  martyr'd  victim  falls  ; 
There  Hope,  "  the  Heaven-born  charmer'  dies 
And  peace,  with  trembling  pinion,  flies 
Far  from  the  gloomy  scene. 

The  Fairy  pass'd  the  threshold's  bound 
And  gaz'd  with  timid  wonder  round  ; 
Soft  came  the  shaded  beams  of  day 
Through  casements  drap'd  in  fabrics  gay  ; 
This  flood  of  rosy-tinted  light 
Fell  over  many  an  object  bright, 
And,  like  the  glow  of  sun-set  skies, 
Bestow'd  on  all  its  ow  n  rich  dies. 
There  were  the  Sculptor's  forms  of  grace, 
In  whose  Ihir  shapes  the  eye  might  trace 
The  cunning  of  a  master  hand. 
The  powder  that  genius'  sons  command  ; 
And  pictures  whose  rich  colouring  wore 
The  light,  the  life  that  beameth  o'er 
A  living  landscape — forms  so  fair, 
Features  of  loveliness  so  rare. 
And  eyes  that  all  so  life-like  beam'd, 
Shane  from  the  canvass,  that  it  seem'd 


24  THE    BOUQUET. 

The  artist  must  have  won  his  power 
From  source  divine  by  some  high  spell. 
Or  wander'd,  in  his  dreaming  hour, 
Where  shapes  of  heaven-born  beauty  dwell. 

The  tenant  of  this  gorgeous  room 
Is  a  fair  female,  in  the  bloom 
Of  life's  rich  Summer  days  : 
Oh  sure  if  splendor's  dazzl'ing  rays 
Have  power  the  human  heart  to  cheer 
We'll  find  a  fount  of  gladness  here  ! 
But  mark  ye  now  the  lone  one's  face, 
'No  sign  of  peace  or  joy  you  trace 
Within  that  mirror ; — it  reveals 
But  the  sad  weariness  she  feels. 
The  burning  tint  upon  her  cheek 
Doth  not  health's  rosy  presence  speak  ; 
'Tis  but  the  hue  that  art  bestows. 
The  counterfeit  of  nature's  rose  ; 
And  the  quick  flashing  of  her  eye 
Is  not  like  joy's  celestial  beam, 
But  lightning  in  a  stormy  sky, 
Whose  lurid  and  terrific  gleam 
Shows  the  dark  clouds  that  linger  near 
And  wakens  thoughts  of  gloom  and  tear. 
All  ye  who  seek  to  read  the  heart 
And  learn  the  secrets  hidden  there. 
Watch  well  the  eye— deceptive  part 
That  never  plays,  but  beameth  pure 
If  all  be  pure  within — man  may  school 
His  lying  lip  to  smile  by  rule. 
Or  his  deceitful  brow  to  wear 
The  semblance  of  a  joy  not  there, 


THE   FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  25 

But  o'er  this  mirror  of  his  soul 
He  cannot  hold  such  high  control ; 
This  spurns  all  power  that  would  subdue 
And  speaks  in  accents  ever  true  ! 

And  now,  if  we  can  read  aright 

The  language  in  those  eyes  so  bright, 

How  sad  are  its  revealings  ! 

How  much  it  tells  of  grief  and  gloom, 

Of  buried  hopes  and  blighted  feelings 

And  joys  that  never  more  can  bloom. 

See,  how  intense  and  wild  her  gaze, 

As  if  some  sight  of  dread  amaze 

"Woke  horror  in  her  soul ; 

How  pales  and  glows  her  brow  by  turns ; 

How  wilder  still  her  eye-beam  burns ; 

How  heaves  her  breast  with  deep  drawn  sighs 

Like  ^^  avcs  when  angry  winds  arise  ; 

Hon  moves  her  pallid  lip,  as  though 

It  fain  would  breathe  a  wail  of  woe. 

What  moves  her  thus  ?  tliose  Roses  fair 

So  wildly  scatter'd  round  lier  there  1 

Aye,  they  can  well  reveal  the  cause 

Of  her  sad  brow  and  earnest  gaze. 

For  they  have  power  to  bid  her  pause 

In  sin  and  guilt's  unholy  ways. 

She  reads  Avithin  those  stainless  things 

A  moral  lesson,  pure  and  tme, 

Which,  to  her  darken'd  spirit,  brings 

Thoughts  of  a  better,  brighter  hue. 

Visions  of  peace  and  hope  and  youth 

Pass  o'er  the  mirror  of  her  mind. 

Recalling  friendships  lit  by  truth 


2b  Tll  K    BOUQUET. 

And  loves  all  sinless  and  refined. 

Those  flowers  call  back  the  blissful  time 

When  she  was  pure  and  fair  as  they, 

With  form  untouch'd,  Unstain'd  by  crime 

And  spirit  spotless  as  the  day. 

Oh,  bless  the  thoughts  those  Roses  give, 

And  bless  the  spells  that  in  them  live  ! 

Once  more  the  erring  ^^  anderer  strays 

*Mid  the  lov'd  haunts  of  early  days, 

Pure,  happy,  innocent  again 

And  free  from  every  darkening  stain. 

Once  more  she  wanders  o'er  the  wild 

A  gay  and  guileless  village  child, 

Hunting,  in  every  lone  retreat. 

For  Snow-drop  fair  or  Violet  sweet. 

Once  more,  oh,  bliss  above  all  other, 

She  kneels  beside  her  sainted  mother, 

And  breathes  the  sweet  and  solenm  prayers 

She  learn'd  in  childhood's  happy  hours. 

She  feels  her  parent's  holy  kiss. 

She  hears  her  gentle  blessing  given, 

Oh  !  can  there  be  on  a  Earth  a  bhss 

More  pure,  or  more  allied  to  Heaven  ? 

But  all  too  dear  the  vision  grows, 

Too  great  the  burden  of  delight ; 

The  dreamer  wakes  to  present  Avoes, 

Awakes  to  feel  the  withering  blight 

Of  shame  and  error's  deepest  stain 

Enfold  her  like  the  captive's  chain. 

But  tears,  such  tears  as  long  have  been 

By  those  dark  flashing  eyes  unshed. 

Now  falling  fast  and  free,  proclaim 

That  virtue's  seeds  are  not  all  dead. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 

"  Hope  for  the  lost !  high  hope  for  one 
"  Who  long  hath  been  the  child  of  sin ; 
"  One  strain  of  memory's  nuisic  tone 
"  May  haclv  to  peace  a  wanderer  win  ! 
*'  There,  let  my  precious  flow'rets  he 
"  Long,  long  before  her  tearfid  eye  : 
"  They  v.ake  repentance  for  the  past 
"  And  o'er  the  clouded  future  cast 
"  One  ray  of  hope  serene 
"  Perchance  these  simple  things  may  be 
"  The  heralds  of  a  better  day 
"  And  by  their  holy  ministry 
"  Lure  back  the  lost  to  virtue's  way." 

These  words  the  wandering  Fairy  said 
As  from  tiie  mournful  scene  she  fled. 
But  soon  again  her  flight  was  stay'd 
Beneath  a  Churchyard's  sombre  shade- 
Alas,  it  is  a  solemn  sight, 
A  graveyard  in  a  city's  bound. 
So  silent,  sad  and  desolate. 
While  busy  life  is  all  around ! 
It  speaks  so  truly  to  the  heart 
Of  being's  vain  and  empty  show ; 
And  seems  to  mock  the  fleeting  part 
We  play  while  here  below. 
How  hush'd  and  still  the  sleepers  lie 
While  countless  footsteps  hurry  by  \ 
How  calm  and  tranquil  all  appear 
While  tumult,  toil  and  strife  are  near ! 
There  sleep  ambition's  sons  nor  heed 
The  eflbrts  of  a  rival  train 
Who  hasten  past  to  win  the  ineed 


i8  THE   BOUQUET. 

They  sought  in  life  to  gain. 
There  rests  the  dreaming  poet  now. 
Who  once  had  hop'd  to  deck  his  brow 
With  Fame's  unfading  lays  ; 
Now  other  minstrels  win  the  race 
And  make  the  lost  one's  burial  place 
Echo  with  their  proud  lays. 
And  there  the  slave  of  traffic  lies  | 
In  vain  the  golden  chances  rise, 
In  vain  the  speculator's  prize 
Is  offered  in  the  mart : — no  more 
He  has,  as  in  life's  scheming  hour. 
The  Alchemist's  once  fabled  power* 
His  crafty  spirit  sleeps  the  while 
His  brother  toiler's  of  the  day 
Sweep  by  to  bask  in  Fortune's  smile 
And  bear  her  spoils  away  ! 

The  dead,  the  quiet  dead  should  rest 

Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  life, 

Far  from  all  care  and  toil  unblest. 

Far  from  all  noise  and  strife. 

In  some  sweet  spot,  where  Nature  sheds 

A  smile  serene  and  fair, 

We  e'er  should  make  their  lowly  bedja 

And  lay  the  sleepers  there, 

The  smiling  Sun  or  pensive  Moon, 

Should  be  the  oply  lights  that  shine 

In  such  {^  scene  ;  the  soothing  tune 

Of  wild- bird's  song  divine. 

Or  murmuring  waters  gentle  lay 

The  only  music  tones  that  play 

Around  the  solemn  shrine. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  5^9 

There  moaning  winds,  thro'  leafy  bowers. 
Would  softly  sigh  to  answering  flowers 
And  ceaseless  requiems  chaunt. 
And  this  were  fitting  sight  to  see, 
Sweet  nature  mourning  o'er  her  dead. 
Like  a  fond  mother's  tearful  eye 
Watching  her  offspring's  bed. 

Sadly  the  Fairy  gaz'd  around 

On  marble  tomb  and  grassy  mound, 

And  sigh'd  to  think  of  all  the  Avoe 

That  many  living  hearts  would  know 

For  those  who  slept  so  calm  below ! 

But  peace  again  smil'd  o'er  her  heart 

When  she  beheld  a  grave  apart. 

So  hallow'd  by  affection's  light 

•Twas  cheerful  to  the  gazer's  sight. 

The  lowly  bed  was  planted  o'er 

With  shrubs  and  flowers, 

So  chosen  that  their  own  sweet  lore. 

Their  "  mystic  language  "  might  disclose 

A  touching  tale— the  pale  white  Rose 

Was  there  of  sadness  deep  to  tell, 

And  Hyacinth,  whose  purple  bell 

[s  eloquent  of  sorrow ; 

And  Violets  of  the  azure  hue, 

Which  change  not  with  the  changing  skies, 

And  therefore  are  the  emblems  true 

Of  faithfulness— Its  fragrant  sighs 

Sweet  Rosemary  breath'd  around 

And,  with  its  leaves  of  fadeless  green, 

Spake  of  remembrance ;— there  was  found 

The  graceful  locust  too,  which  gave 


30  THE    BOUQUET. 

A  beauteous  aspect  to  the  scene, 
And  told  of  love  beyond  the  grave. 
These  token  flowers  reveal'd  that  he 
Who  slept  below  was  unforgot. 
That  fond  and  faithful  memory 
Would  linger  long  around  the  spot. 
The  sacred  shrine  w  hich  love  had  sought 
For  the  dear  idol  of  his  thought. 

And,  kneehng  now  on  that  low  bed. 

The  Fay  beholds  a  woman  fair, 

With  cheek  wdiose  early  bloom  is  fled 

And  brow  that  wears  the  seal  of  care  ; 

With  eye  whose  dim  and  shadowy  light 

Reveals  a  history  of  tears, 

And  tells  that  grief's  untimely  blight 

Has  fallen  on  hfe's  Summer  years. 

She's  weaving  now  a  blooming  wreath, 

A  garland  of  the  Fairy's  Roses, 

To  grace  and  beautify  the  tomb 

Where  her  belov'd  reposes. 

Mark,  how  the  tide  of  woe  is  stay'd. 

And  sorrow's  gloomy  shadows  fade 

From  her  pale  brow  and  mournful  eyes 

The  while  her  pleasant  task  she  plies. 

Tlie  tear-drops  pause  upon  her  cheek 

And  linger  there,  and  gleam  awhile 

As  night's  soft  tears  on  mountain  steep 

Gleam  in  the  morning's  smile. 

While  bending  o'er  those  bright-hued  flow^ers 

And  drinking  in  their  sweet  perfume. 

There  comes  a  dream  of  liappier  hours 

To  cheer  the  mourner's  doom. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH  31 

Like  phantoms  rais'd  by  wizard  spell, 
The  vanish'd  scenes  of  other  days 
Arise,  in  all  their  earlier  charms. 
Before  her  spirit  gaze. 
Her  sobs  are  hush'd,  her  tears  are  dried, 
Her  heart  hath  cast  its  weight  aside 
And,  for  a  time,  forgot  its  woe 
For  loss  of  him  who  sleeps  below. 

"  Dream  on,  dream  on  poor  widow'd  heart ; 

"  And  may  such  visions  peace  impart. 

**  Henceforth  thou'lt  tread  life's  daily  round 

"  Like  a  lone  pilgrim,  who,  in  fear 

"  Wanders  where  gloomy  sights  abound 

"  And  peril  lurketh  near. 

*'  Henceforth  each  hope  that  dawnis  for  thet 

**  Must  have  a  cloud  to  dim  its  light, 

*'  And  every  bud  of  joy  you  see 

**  Must  wear  the  canker's  hidden  blight. 

*'  Henceforth  all  music  tones  you  hear 

"  Will  ring  with  one  discordant  note, 

"  And  o'er  all  prospects  bright  and  dear 

"  One  pall-like  shadow  still  will  float. 

"  The  purest  pleasures  left  for  thee, 

"  Fond  wife,  are  those  of  memory  ; 

"  And  they  indeed  are  truly  thine 

"  While  thou  art  decking  that  sad  shrine 

"  With  my  sweet  flowers.     Aye,  streAv  them  there, 

*'  For  they  are  oflierings  pure  and  fair 

"  And  meet  for  such  a  scene.     Emblems  of  thee, 

'•  Sad  one,  these  gentle  flowers  will  be  ; 

"  Lovely  while  perishing,  and  true 

"  To  their  pure  lives,  they'll  yield  a  breath 


32  THE   BOUQUET. 

"  Of  sweetness  to  the  last — thus  you 
"  Will  still  love  on  'til  death." 

Thus  spake,  in  pity's  tenderest  strain, 

The  wanderer — then  resum'd  again 

Her  weary  search.     And  now,  in  fear 

And  grief,  she  pauses  near 

A  gloomy  prison.     In  its  cells 

Many  a  wretched  inmate  dwells, 

Shut  out  from  peace  and  hope's  sweet  ray, 

Shut  out  from  honour's  flowery  way, 

Shut  out  from  every  pleasant  sight 

And  sound  that  wakens  deep  delight 

In  the  free  heart-^from  the  blue  sky, 

The  balmy  air,  the  Sun's  glad  beams, 

The  breathing  flowers,  the  bounding  streams, 

And  all  thy  blessings,  Liberty  ! 

Oh,  Crime,  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

And  fearful  penalties  must  bring ; 

For  deepest  woe  and  darkest  shame, 

And  blighted  hopes  and  ruin'd  name, 

And  Earth's  contempt  and  Heaven's  wrath 

Must  follow  all  who  tread  its  path ! 

Why  will  not  wayward  mortals  learn 

The  fatal  wiles  of  sin  to  spurn, 

When,  in  all  records  of  the  past, 

They  read  the  truth,  that,  first  or  last. 

The  guilty  meet  a  wretched  doom  ? 

The  good,  the  pure  alone  can  know 

The  joys  that  in  life's  pathway  bloom, 

The  Heaven  that  even  here  below 

Can  fill  the  heart,  and  waken  there 

All  its  diviner  powers. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  33 

To  such  the  Earth  is  ever  fair, 

To  such  its  fields  and  flowers 

Still  wear  the  hues  of  beauty  bright. 

The  radient  charm,  the  glorious  light 

That  shone  on  Eden's  bowers  ; 

And  such,  however  low  their  lot. 

However  circumscrib'd  the  spot 

They  call  their  home,  may  walk  the  Earth 

Proud  in  the  consciousness  of  worth. 

And  freely  claim  a  kindred  tie 

With  the  angelic  host  on  high. 

A  strange,  a  sad  and  solemn  sight 

Now  meets  the  Fairy's  gaze. 

It  seemeth  as  if  sudden  night 

Had  veil'd  the  noon-tide's  blaze. 

Low,  dark  and  gloomy  are  the  walls. 

From  whence  the  noisome  moisture  falls : 

A  heap  of  straw  the  only  bed 

For  the  unhappy  captive  spread ; 

A  tatter'd  garb  his  sole  array 

To  keep  the  chilling  damps  away ; 

His  shrunken  limbs,  in  fetters  bound, 

Move  not  without  a  clanking  sound 

That  echoes  dismally  around. 

But  e'en  in  this  degraded  state. 

He  shows  a  lingering  remnant  yet 

Of  feelings  meet  for  happier  fate. 

Crouch'd  on  the  floor,  just  where  a  ray 

Of  sickly  sun-shine  makes  its  way 

Thro'  grating  small,  his  fingers  clasp, 

With  energy'?  convulsive  grasp, 

A  few  frail  flowers.     How  they  had  found 


34  T"K    BOUQUET. 

Their  way  within  the  prison  bound 
'Twere  vain  to  tell ; — with  kind  intent, 
Perchance  some  friend  of  better  days 
Had  these  sweet  missionaries  sent, 
Repentance  for  the  past  to  raise  ; 
Perchance  that  love,  (it  oft  hath  given 
Such  token  of  its  deathless  powers) 
Had  w  ith  a  pity,  born  of  Heaven, 
Thus  sought  to  soothe  the  Aveary  hours 
Of  the  lone  wretch. — Needless  to  know 
How  those  fair  flowers  he  gain'd, 
Be  mine  the  pleasant  task  to  show 
With  w  hat  a  holy  power  they  reign'd 
O'er  the  sad  heritor  of  shame. 
Long  had  he  paced  the  prison  lloor 
And  eyed  the  narrow  boundery  o'er 
With  glance  hke  lightning's  tlame, 
While  tiioughts  of  evil,  dark  and  dire, 
Awoke  his  soul  to  vengeful  ire. 
And  curses  deep  and  dreadful  fell 
Like  muttering  thunders  round  the  cell. 
Until  it  seem'd  the  gloomy  lair 
Of  some  dark  demon  of  despair. 
But  now  a  sudden  change  is  wrought 
In  the  fierce  current  of  his  thought ; 
Those  flowers  have  touch 'd  the  only  chord 
Yet  tuneful  in  his  rugged  breast 
And  feeling's  fount  is  strangely  stirr'd, 
Like  waters  in  the  storm's  unrest. 
That  one  pure  spark  which  never  dies 
E'en  in  the  coldest,  hardest  hearts, 
Which  gleams,  like  Stars  in  clouded  skies, 
Thro'  all  the  gloom  that  sin  imparts. 


THE    FAIRY'S    Sn  A  RC  ft  35 

Now  wakes  and  brightens  like  the  ray 

That  herald's  the  approach  of  day. 

The  memory  of  a  Mother's  love  ! 

How  like  a  voice  from  worlds  above 

It  thrills  the  soul !     How  long  it  dwells 

Shrin'd  in  the  heart's  most  holy  cells 

A  sacred  thing. — If  darkening  powers 

Have  quench'd  the  light  of  earlier  hours 

And  bade  all  other  pure  thoughts  fly, 

That  purest  feeling  will  not  die, 

But  lives  and  smiles  'mid  blight  and  gloom 

Like  wild  flower  near  a  ruin'd  tomb. 

That  feehng  may  be  buried  deep 

Beneath  a  load  of  sin  and  shame. 

And  may  for  long,  long  seasons  keep 

Hidden  from  all  its  holy  flame, 

But  it  will  wake  in  some  lone  hour 

And  rule  the  soul  with  conquering  power. 

Thus  with  the  captive,— thick  and  fast 

As  Stars  steal  out  when  day  is  past, 

Now  gentle  thoughts  and  memories  steal. 

Upon  his  spirit,  and  reveal 

Glimpses  of  better  things.     Ho\^  bright  appears 

The  vision  of  life's  early  years  ; 

How  purely  to  his  spirit  gaze 

Rises  the  well  beloved  form 

Of  her  who  watch'd  with  love  so  warm 

His  childhood's  wayward  days. 

Each  token  of  her  love  for  him, 

Her  only  son,  her  hope  and  pride, 

Her  watching  'til  the  Stars  grew  dim^ 

In  nightly  vigils  by  his  side. 


36  THE   BOUQUET. 

When  pain  oppress'd — her  tireless  care 

To  teach  him  lessons  good  and  tnie, 

Her  oft  repeated  hope  and  prayer 

That  he  might  virtue's  path  pursue  ; 

All  these  fond  memories  cluster  now 

Around  the  captives  heart — their  power 

Is  like  the  Sun's  reviving  glow 

In  Spring's  enchanted  hour. 

"  Oh,  God,  and  can  it  truly  be 

*•  A  wretch  so  lost,  so  vile  as  me 

"  Could  e'er  have  been  so  deeply  bless'd 

"  With  such  a  love  ?     Did  that  pm*e  ray 

"  In  truth  illume  my  childhood's  day  ? 

"  Ah,  would  to  Heaven  that  Death's  cold  hand 

**  Had  lain  me  in  an  early  grave, 

"  E'er  I  had  slighted  one  command 

"  That  sainted  mother  gave  !" 

These  burning  words  tlie  captive  said. 

Then  bent  his  form  and  bow'd  his  head 

And  wept — aye,  wept !  the  man  of  crime. 

Freely  as  in  life's  holier  time  ! 

Thus,  he,  whose  spirit  woe  and  pain 

And  gloomy  cell  and  galling  chain 

Had  fail'd  to  soften  or  subdue. 

Now  melted  to  remorseful  tears, 

To  penitence  sincere  and  true, 

Before  those  fairy  flowers.     And  she 

Who  came  to  bear  them  to  her  bower 

Wept  too,  with  wondering  joy,  to  see 

This  last  sweet  token  of  their  power. 

*'  Ah,  never  more  I'll  fondly  dream 

"  Or  wish  to  claim  my  treasures  fair, 

"  So  dear  to  mortal  homes  they  seem 


THE   FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  37 

"  'Tis  meet  they  spend  their  sweet  lives  there. 

*'  They're  dear  to  all,  the  young  and  gay, 

"  The  aged,  in  their  wintry  day, 

"  The  happy,  in  their  blissful  mood, 

*^  The  sorrowing,  w  hen  their  griefs  intrude  { 

"  Oh,  let  these  beauteous  products,  then, 

"  Bloom  ever  round  the  haunts  of  men  ; 

*'  Let  low  ly  cot  and  lordly  hall 

'*  A.nd  wide  domain  and  garden  small 

"  Receive  the  gentle  guests  ;  and  they, 

"  Henceforth  shall  rule  with  loftier  sway  ; 

"  For  1  am  homeless  now,  my  bower 

*'  Is  desolate,  and  I  nmst  dwell 

*'  By  turns  ^^ith  every  beauteous  flower 

"  That  blooms  around — a  mystic  spell, 

"  A  high  and  holy  charm  shall  be 

**  Their  recompense  who  shelter  me  ; 

"  Round  each  and  all  this  gift  shall  live 

*'  E'en  after  they  have  ceas'd  to  give 

*•'  The  wandering  Fay  a  home. 

"  But  ever,  in  fond  memory 

"  Of  my  own  chosen  flowers, 

"  JRoses  of  every  hue  shall  own 

*^  A  spell  of  deeper  powders ; 

*'  The  charm  I  give  to  them  shall  cast 

*'  Its  magic  over  every  heart 

"  And  hold  sweet  influence  there,  and  last 

**  'Til  life  itself  depart ; 

*'  And  holy  spirits,  when  they  grieve 

'*  O'er  those  who  stray  from  virtue's  track, 

"  Shall  bless  the  spells  that  Roses  weave 

"  And  choose  them  as  their  messenger^i 

"To  call  the  wandereri?  back." 


3S  "fHE    BOUQUET. 

No  more  the  Fairy  spake — no  more 

She  mourn'd  her  lost ;  her  search  was  o'er, 

But  not  her  wanderings,  for  she  stray'd 

Where  many  flowret's  bloom'd,  and  made 

Her  home  awhile  with  all.     And  still 

She  roams  Earth's  garden-bowers  at  will, 

And  nestles  in  Spring's  opening  Rose, 

Or  flutters  round  the  Tulip's  bell, 

Or  creeps,  at  evening's  dewy  close, 

Within  the  Lily's  fragrant  cell, 

And  slumbers  there,  and  dreams  away 

The  Summer  night  in  visions  gay  ; 

And,  when  the  morning  smiles  again, 

She  leaves  the  bright-hue'd  garden  flowers 

And  hies  to  lonely  hill  or  plain 

To  spend  a  few  delicious  hours 

Where  the  wild  Honey-suckle's  fling 

Their  balmy  sweets  on  zephyr's  wing. 

When  e'er  a  storm-cloud  veils  the  sky 

Or  threat'ning  Avinds  sweep  rudely  by 

She  hastens  to  a  safe  retreat, 

The  Violet's  shelter'd  home,  and  there 

Receives  a  welcome  sweet 

And  rests  'til  Heaven  again  is  fair. 

And,  mindful  of  her  promis'd  spell, 

She  bids  a  mystic  beauty  dwell 

Round  every  home  she  gains. 

Ail  ye  who  nurture  flowers,  and  feel 

Their  soothing  influence  o'er  ye  steal 

With  u  mysterious  sway,  be  sure 

The  wandering  Fay  hath  sojourn'd  there 

Aniitl  your  fragrant  treasures,  where 

Her  iharm  e'en  yet  endures. 


THE    FAIPxY'S    SEAKCH.  39 

And  ye  uho  roam  o'er  daisied  ground 

While  Spring  or  Summer  smiles  around, 

And  feel  a  bliss  ^^  ords  may  not  tell, 

Know  that  the  Fairy's  magic  spell 

Is  deepest  in  such  place  and  time, 

And  wakes  that  sense  of  joy  sublime. 

Know,  too,  that  a  mysterious  tie, 

A  lofty  bond  of  sympathy, 

Unites  your  spirits  to  the  Fay, 

And  this  is  why  her  charm    an  sway 

So  potently  your  souls,  for  yet. 

No  matter  where  her  footsteps  roam, 

She  turns  with  memory's  fond  regret 

To  her  first  beauteous  home, 

And  often  pines,  but  pines  in  vain, 

Another  one  so  dear  to  gain. 

Thus  mortals,  whatsoe'er  their  lot, 

Turn  ever  to  the  sacred  spot. 

The  first  dear  home  that  gave  them  birth 

And  deem  it  briglitest  of  the  Earth, 

And  sigh  that  life  no  more  can  wear 

The  blissful  hues  that  deck'd  it  there. 

And  now  my  pleasant  task  were  done. 
Save  that  there  comes  a  thought  of  one 
Who  truly  said  "  they  write  in  vain 
Who  weave  no  moral  with  their  strain ;' 
And  mine  were  little  worth  indeed 
If  wanting  this. — To  those  who  read 
This  simple  tale,  then,  let  me  say. 
Cherish  and  love  the  lowly  things 
That  form  the  burden  of  my  lay ; 
For  their  sn  eet  lives,  tho'  brief  as  bright, 


40  THE   BOUQUET. 

Are  ruled  by  that  same  power  Divine 

Who  bids  each  glorious  world  of  light 

In  its  appointed  orbit  shine  ; 

And  not  more  wonderous  to  the  soul 

Are  the  bright  worlds  that  o'er  us  roll 

Unchang'd  by  time,  than  the  frail  flower 

Whose  life  is  compass'd  by  an  hour ; 

Each  speaks  the  same  high  language  ;— each 

The  same  ennobling  lessons  teach ; 

Each  leads  our  thoughts  and  hopes  above, 

Each  wakes  our  reverence  and  our  love 

For  the  Supreme — the  "  Great  First  Cause," 

Who  rules  with  such  unerring  laws. 


THE  MOSS  ROSE. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    KRUMMACHER. 
BV    B.    J.    LOSSING. 

Beneath  a  Rose-bush,  slumbering  lay 

A  sei-aph  bright,  from  Flora's  bower.— 
*Twas  he,  \\  ho,  at  the  close  of  day 

Sprinkles  with  dew  each  fragrant  flower. 

He  'woke,  and  on  the  Rose-bush  sir i led, 

And  with  a  voice  that  breath'd  of  Heaven, 
Thus  spake — "  Thou  art  my  loveliest  child, 
A  favor  ask,  and  'twill  be  given." 
"  Adorn  me  with  a  lovelier  charm" — 
Th  ^  spirit  of  the  Rose-bush  pray'd, 
The  angel,  stretching  forth  his  arm, 
In  simple  Moss  the  flower  array'd ! 
It  stood,  the  loveliest  of  its  kind, 

A  sweet  Moss  Rose  in  simple  dress ; 
Bright  emblem  of  a  modest  mind 
Adorn'd  with  nature's  loveliness. 
Thus,  dearest  sister,  lay  aside, 

The  gaudy  ornaments  of  Art — 
Let  modest  Worth  be  all  thy  pride,— 
Let  Virtue  decorate  thy  heart. 
New  YoiiK,  1846. 


Fair  one !  take  this  Rose,  and  wreath  it 

In  thy  braided  hair  : 
A  brighter  bloom  will  rest  beneath  it, 

Take  this  Rose  my  fair  ! 
The  How er  which  late  was  seen  to  i;i.>v> , 
So  lovely  on  that  snowy  brow, 
Lo\'d  thy  hp,  and  lightly  shed 
A  dewy  leaf  of  rosy  red, 

lo  blush  for  ever  there. 

Take  this  Lily  love,  and  twine  it 

With  thy  waving  hair  : 
^Twill  gem  the  ringlets,  why  decline  it  ' 

Take  the  flower  my  fair  ! 
And  yet  its  leaflets,  pure  and  pale 
In  beauty  on  thy  brow  will  fail : 
That  brow  attracts  all  eyes  to  thee, 
And  none  will  choose,  or  chance  to  sco 

The  Lily  fading  there. 

A     A.   I' 


0^  \ 


^^^cy-t^'y/^/Y/Y.    r,y/UP^:i/^. 


THE   TEA  ROSE. 

BY    MRS.    H.    E.    BEECHER    STONE. 

There  it  stood,  in  its  little  green  vase,  on  a  light  ebony  stand, 
in  the  window  of  the  drawing  room.  The  rich  satin  curtains  with 
their  costly  fringes  swept  down  on  either  side  of  it,  and  around  glit- 
tered every  rare  and  fanciful  trifle  which  wealth  can  afford  to  lux- 
ury, and  yet  that  simple  rose  was  the  fairest  of  them  all.  So  pure 
it  looked — its  white  leaves  just  touched  with  that  delicious  creamy 
tint,  peculiar  to  its  kind,  its  cup  so  full,  so  perfect,  its  head  bending 
as  if  it  were  sinking  and  melting  away  in  its  own  richness — oh, 
when  did  man  ever  make  anything  like  the  living  perfect  flower ! 

But  the  sunlight  that  streamed  through  the  window  revealed 
something  fairer  than  the  rose.  Reclined  on  an  ottoman,  in  a  deep 
recess,  and  intently  engaged  with  a  book,  lay  what  seemed,  the 
living  counterpart  of  that  so  lovely  a  flower.  That  cheek  so  pale, 
so  spiritual,  the  face  so  full  of  liigh  thought,  the  fjiir  forehead,  th<3 
long,  downcast  lashes,  and  the  expression  of  the  beautiful  mouth,  so, 
sorrowful  yet  so  subdued  and  sweet — it  seemed  like  the  picture  of 
d  dream. 

"  Florence, — Florence  ! "  echoed  a  merry  and  musical  voice  in  i\ 
sweet  impatient  tone.  Turn  your  head,  reader,  and  you  will  see  a 
dark  and  sparkling  maiden,  the  very  model  of  some  little  wilful  elf, 
born  of  mischief  and  motion,  with  a  dancing  eye,  afoot  that  scarcely 
seemed  to  touch  the  carpet,  and  a  smile  so  multiplied  by  dimples, 
that  it  seemed  like  a  thousand  smiles  at  once.     "  Come  Florence,  I 


44  THE   BOUQUET. 

say,"  said  the  little  fairy,  "  put  down  that  wise,  good,  excellent  vol- 
ume, and  talk  with  a  poor  little  mortal, — come,  descend  from  your 
cloud,  my  dear." 

The  fair  apparition  thus  abjured — obeyed,  and  looking  up,  re- 
vealed just  the  eyes  you  expected  to  see  beneath  such  lids ;  eyes 
deep,  pathetic  and  rich,  as  a  strain  of  sad  music. 

"I  say,  cousin,"  said  the  'darke  ladye,'  "I've  been  thinking 
what  you  are  to  do  with  your  pet  rose,  when  you  go  to  New- York 
— as  to  our  great  consternation  you  are  going  to  do ;  you  know  it 
would  be  a  sad  pity  to  leave  it  with  such  a  scatterbrain  as  I  am.  I 
do  love  flowers,  that's  a  fact ;  that  is,  I  like  a  regular  bouquet,  cut 
off  and  tied  up  to  carry  to  a  party ;  but  as  to  all  this  tending  and 
fussing  that  is  necessary  to  keep  them  growing,  I've  no  gifts  in  that 
line." 

"  Make  yourself  quite  easy  as  to  that,  Kate,"  said  Florence,  with 
a  smile.  "  I've  no  intention  of  calling  upon  your  talents;  I  have  an 
asylum  for  my  favourite." 

"  Oh!  then  you  know  just  what  I  was  going  to  say;  Mrs.  Marshall 
I  presume  has  been  speaking  to  you ;  she  was  here  yesterday,  and 
I  was  very  pathetic  upon  the  subject,  telling  her  the  loss  your 
favourite  would  sustain,  and  so  forth,  and  she  said  how  delighted 
she  should  be  to  have  it  in  her  green-house,  it  is  in  such  a  fine 
state  now,  so  full  of  buds.  I  told  her  1  knew  you  would  like,  of 
all  things,  to  give  it  to  her,  you  were  always  so  fond  of  Mrs. 
Marshall,  you  know." 

^^  Nay,  Kate,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  have  otherwise  engaged  it." 

"  Who  can  it  be  to  ?  you  have  so  few  intimates  here." 

^'  Oh,  only  one  of  my  odd  fancies." 

"  But  do  tell  me,  Florence." 

"  Well,  cousin,  you  know  the  little  pale  girl  to  whom  we  give 
sewing." 

"  What,  little  Mary  Stephens  1  How  absurd  !  This  is  just  of  a 
piece,   Florence,   with    your  other   motherly,   old-inaidish  ways — 


THE    TEA    ROSE.  45 

dressing  dolls  for  poor  children,  making  caps,  and  knitting  socks 
for  all  the  Kttle  dirty  babies  in  the  region  round  about.  I  do  be- 
lieve that  you  have  made  more  calls  in  those  two  vile,  ill-smelling 
alleys  back  of  our  house  than  ever  you  have  in  Chesnut-street, 
though  you  know  every  body  has  been  half  dying  to  see  you ;  and 
now,  to  crown  all,  you  must  give  this  choice  little  bijou  to  a  semp- 
tress  girl,  when  one  of  your  most  intimate  friends,  in  your  own  class, 
would  value  it  so  highly.  What  in  the  world  can  people  in  their 
circumstances  want  of  flowers  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same  that  I  do,"  replied  Florence,  calmly.  "  Have 
you  never  noticed  that  the  little  girl  never  comes  here  without 
looking  wistfully  at  the  opening  buds  ?  and  don't  you  remember 
the  morning  when  she  asked  me  so  prettily  if  I  would  let  her 
mother  come  and  see  it,  she  was  so  fond  of  flowers  1 " 

"  But,  Florence,  only  think  of  this  rare  flower  standing  on  a  table, 
with  ham,  eggs,  cheese,  and  flour,  and  stifled  in  the  close  little 
room  where  Mrs.  Stephens  and  her  daughter  manage  to  wash,  iron, 
cook,  and  nobody  knows  what  besides.*' 

"  Well,  Kate,  and  if  I  were  obliged  to  live  in  one  coarse  room, 
and  wash,  iron,  and  cook,  as  you  say — if  I  had  to  spend  every  mo- 
ment of  my  time  in  hard  toil,  with  no  prospect  from  my  window 
but  a  brick  side-walk,  or  a  dirty  lane,  such  a  flower  as  this  would 
be  untold  happiness  to  me." 

"  Pshaw,  Florence — all  sentiment ;  poor  people  have  no  time  to 
be  sentimental ;  besides,  I  don't  think  it  will  grow  with  them— it 
is  a  green-house  flower,  and  used  to  delicate  living." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  a  flower  never  inquires  whether  its  owner  be 
rich  or  poor ;  and  Mrs.  Stephens,  whatever  else  she  has  not,  has 
sunshine  of  as  good  a  quahty  as  that  that  streams  through  our  win- 
dow. The  beautiful  things  that  God  makes  are  the  gift  of  all  alike. 
You  will  see  that  my  little  rose  will  be  as  well  and  merry  in  Mrs 
Stephen's  room  as  in  ours." 

"  Well,  after  all,  how  odd  !  when  one  gives  to  poor  people  one 


46  THE    BOUQUET. 

wants  to  give  them  something  useful — a  bushel  of  potatoes  or  a 
ham,  for  example." 

"  Why,  certainly,  potatoes  and  ham  must  be  had ;  but,  having 
ministered  to  the  first  and  most  craving  w^ants,  why  not  add  any 
little  pleasure  or  gratifications  that  we  may  have  it  in  our  power  to 
give.  I  know  that  there  are  many  of  the  poor  who  have  fine  feeling 
and  a  keen  sense  of  the  beautiful,  which  rusts  out  and  dies  because 
they  are  too  hard  pressed  to  procure  it  one  gratification.  Poor  Mrs. 
Stephens,  for  example ;  I  know  she  would  enjoy  birds,  and  flowers, 
and  music  as  much  as  I  do.  I  have  seen  her  eye  kindle  as  she  has 
looked  on  the  things  in  our  drawing-room,  and  yet  not  one  beautiful 
thing  can  she  command.  From  necessity,  her  room,  her  clothing, 
all  that  she  has,  must  be  coarse  and  plain.  You  should  have  seen 
the  almost  rapture  that  she  and  Mary  felt  when  I  offered  them  my 
Rose." 

"  Dear  me  !  all  this  may  be  true,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  before. 
I  never  thought  that  these  hard-working  people  had  any  idea  of 
taste  ! " 

"  Then  why  do  you  see  so  often  the  Geranium  or  Rose  carefully 
nursed  in  an  old  cracked  tea-pot  in  the  poorest  room,  or  the  Morn- 
ing Glories  planted  in  a  box,  and  made  to  twine  around  the  window. 
Do  not  all  these  show  how  every  human  heart  yearns  after  the 
beautiful  ?  You  remember  how  Mary  our  washerwoman  sat  up  a 
whole  night  after  a  hard  day's  work,  that  she  might  make  her  first 
baby  a  pretty  little  dress  to  be  baptized  in." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  and  how  I  laughed  at  you  for  making  such  a 
tasty  little  cap  for  it." 

"  Well,  Katy,  I  think  that  the  look  of  perfect  delight  and  satis- 
faction with  which  the  poor  girl  regarded  her  baby  in  its  new  dress 
and  cap,  was  something  quite  worth  creating;  1  do  believe  she 
could  not  have  thanked  me  more,  if  I  had  sent  her  a  barrel  of 
flour." 

'•  Well,  I  never  before  thought  of  giving  to  the  poor  anything  but 


THE    TEA   EOSE.  47 

what  they  really  needed,  and  I  have  always  been  willing  to  do 
that,  w^hen  I  could  without  going  far  out  of  my  w^ay." 

*'  Well,  cousin,  if  our  Heavenly  Father  gave  to  us  as  w^e  often 
give,  we  should  have  only  coarse  shapeless  piles  of  provision,  lying 
about  the  world,  instead  of  all  the  beautiful  variety  of  trees,  fruits, 
and  flowers  which  now  delight  us." 

"  Well,  well,  cousin,  I  suppose  you  are  right,  but  pray  have  mercy 
on  my  poor  head;  it  is  too  small  to  hold  so  many  new  ideas  at  once; 
even  go  on  your  own  way:"  and  the  little  lady  began  practizing  a 
waltzing  step  before  the  glass  with  great  satisfaction. 

PART    II. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  and  lighted  by  only  one  window. 
There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor ;  there  was  a  clean  but  coarsely 
covered  bed  in  one  corner;  a  cupboard  with  a  few  plates  and 
dishes  in  the  other ;  a  chest  of  drawers ;  and  before  the  window 
stood  a  small  cherry  stand,  quite  new,  and  indeed  the  only  article 
in  the  room  that  seemed  so.  A  pale  sickly  looking  woman  of  about 
forty  was  leaning  back  in  her  rocking  chair,  her  eyes  closed,  and 
her  lips  compressed  as  if  in  pain.  She  rocked  backw^ard  and  for- 
ward a  few  moments,  pressed  her  hand  hard  upon  her  eyes,  and 
then  languidly  resumed  the  fine  stitching  on  which  she  had  been 
busy  since  morning.  The  door  opened,  and  a  slender  little  girl  of 
about  twelve  years  of  age  entered,  her  large  blue  eyes  dilated,  and 
absolutely  mdiant  with  delight,  as  she  held  up  the  small  vase  w^th 
the  Rose-tree  in  it. 

"  Oh  see  !  Mother,  see  !  there's  one  in  full  bloom,  and  two  more 
half  out,  beautiful  buds  !  " 

The  poor  woman's  face  brightened,  as  she  looked  first  on  the 
Rose,  and  then  on  her  sickly  girl,  on  whose  face  she  had  not  seen  so 
bright  a  colour  for  months. 

*'  God  bless  her ! "  said  she,  involuntarily. 

"•  Miss  Florence !  I  knew  you  w^ould  feel  so,  mother ;  don't  it 


48  THE    BOUQUET. 

make  your  headache  better  to  see  this  flower?  Now  you  won't 
look  so  wishful  at  the  gardeners'  stands  in  the  market,  will  you  ? 
We  have  a  Rose  handsomer  than  any  of  theirs.  Why  it  seems  to 
me,  that  it  is  worth  as  much  to  us  as  our  whole  little  garden  used 
to  be.  See  how  many  more  buds  there  are  on  it,  just  count,  and 
only  smell  the  flower !  Where  shall  we  put  it ! "  and  Mary 
skipped  about  the  room,  placing  her  treasure  first  in  one  position, 
and  then  in  another,  and  walking  off  to  see  the  effect,  till  her 
mother  gently  reminded  her  that  the  Rose-tree  could  not  preserve 
its  beauty  without  sunhght. 

"  Oh  yes,  truly  ! "  said  Mary :  "  well,  then,  it  must  stand  here 
on  this  new  stand.  How  glad  I  am  that  we  have  such  a  handsome 
new  stand  for  it,  it  will  look  so  much  better."  And  Mrs.  Stephens 
laid  down  her  work  and  folded  a  piece  of  newspaper  on  which  the 
treasure  was  duly  deposited. 

"  There,"  said  Mary,  watching  the  arrangement  eagerly,  "  that 
will  do ;  no,  though  it  does  not  show  both  the  buds — turn  it  farther 
round — -a  little  more — there,  it's  right;"  and  Mary  walked  round 
the  room  to  view  the  Rose  in  various  positions,  after  which  she  in- 
sisted that  her  mother  should  go  round  with  her  to  the  outside  to 
see  how  it  looked  there.  "  How  kind  it  was  in  Miss  Florence  to 
think  of  giving  this  to  us,"  said  Mary  ;  "  though  she  has  done  so 
much  for  us,  and  given  us  so  many  things,  yet  this  present  seems 
the  best  of  all,  because  it  seemed  as  if  she  thought  of  us,  and  knew 
just  how  we  felt,  and  so  few  do  that. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Stephens  sighing. 

What  a  bright  afternoon  that  small  gift  made  in  that  little  room. 
How  much  faster  Mary's  tongue  and  fingers  flew  the  livelong  day, 
and  Mrs.  Stephens,  in  the  happiness  of  her  child,  almost  forgot  that 
she  had  a  headache,  and  thought  as  she  supped  her  evening  cup  of 
tea,  that  she  felt  stronger  than  she  had  done  for  some  time. 

That  Rose !  its  sweet  influence  died  not  with  that  first  day 
Through    all  the  long  cold  winter  that  followed,  the  watching. 


THE    TEA    ROSE.  49 

tending,  and  cherishing  of  that  flower,  awakened  a  thousand  pleas- 
ant trains  of  thought  that  beguiled  the  sameness  and  weariness  of 
their  life.  Every  day  the  fair  growing  thing  put  forth  some  fresh 
beauty;  a  bud — a  leaf— or  a  new  shoot,  constantly  excited  fresh 
delight  in  its  possessors.  As  it  stood  in  the  window,  the  passer  by 
would  sometimes  stop  and  gaze,  attracted  by  its  beauty,  and  then 
how  proud  and  happy  was  Mary,  nor  did  even  the  serious  and  care- 
worn widow,  notice  with  indifference  when  she  saw  the  eye  of  a 
chance  visitor  rest  admiringly  on  their  favourite. 

But  httle  did  Florence  know  when  she  gave  that  gift,  that  there 
was  twined  around  it  an  invisible  thread,  that  reached  far  as  brightly 
into  the  w^eb  of  her  destiny. 

One  cold  afternoon  in  early  Spring,  a  tall,  graceful  young  man 
called  at  the  lowly  room  to  receive  and  pay  for  some  linen  which 
the  widow  had  been  making  up.  He  was  a  wayfarer  and  stranger 
in  the  place,  recommended  through  the  charity  of  some  of  Mrs. 
Stephens'  patrons.  His  eye,  as  he  was  going  out,  rested  admiringly 
upon  the  Rose ;  he  stopped  and  looked  earnestly  at  it. 

"  It  was  given  to  us,"  said  httle  Mary,  quickly,  "  by  a  young  lady 
as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  that  is." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  stranger,  turning  and  fixing  upon  her  a  pair  of 
very  bright  eyes,  pleased  and  rather  struck  with  the  simplicity  of 
the  communication,  "  and  how  came  she  to  give  it  to  you  my  Kttle 
girl?" 

"  Oh,  because  we  are  poor,  and  mother  is  sick,  and  we  never  can 
have  any  thing  pretty.  We  used  to  have  a  garden  once,  and  we 
loved  flowers  so  much,  and  Miss  Florence  found  all  this  out,  and  so 
she  gave  us  this." 

"  Florence  ! "  echoed  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Florence  I'Estrange,  a  beautiful  young  lady, — they 
say  she  was  from  foi'eign  parts,  though  she  speaks  English  just  like 
any  other  lady,  only  sweeter." 


50  THE    BOUQUET 

"  Is  she  here  now  ?  is  she  in  this  city  ? "  said  the  gentleman 
eagerly. 

"  No,  she  left  some  months  ago,"  said  the  widow,  but  noticing 
the  sudden  shade  of  disappointment  on  his  face  she  added,  "  but 
you  can  find  all  about  her  by  inquiring  at  her  aunt  Mrs.  Carlisle's, 
No.  10, street." 

As  the  result  of  all  this,  Florence  received  from  the  office  in  the 
next  mail,  a  letter,  in  a  handwriting  that  made  her  tremble. 
During  the  many  early  years  of  her  life  spent  in  France,  she  had 
well  learned  that  writing ;  had  loved  as  a  woman  like  her  loves, 
but  once ;  but  there  had  been  obstacles  of  parents  and  friends, 
separation,  and  long  suspense,  till  at  length,  for  many  bitter  years, 
she  had  believed  that  the  relentless  sea  closed  forever  over  that 
hand  and  heart ;  and  it  was  this  belief  that  had  touched,  with  such 
sweet  calm  sorrow,  every  line  in  her  lovely  face.  But  this  letter 
told  her  that  he  was  living,  that  he  had  traced  her,  even  as  a  hidden 
streamlet  may  be  traced,  by  the  freshness,  the  greenness  of  heart, 
which  her  deeds  of  kindness  had  left  wherever  she  had  passed. 

And  thus  much  said,  do  our  fair  readers  need  any  help  in  fmish- 
iug  this  feitory  for  themselves  ?  of  course  not. 


THE   ROSE. 

Why,  what  a  history  is  in  the  Rose! 

A  history  beyond  all  other  flowers; 

But  never  more,  in  garden  or  in  grove, 

Will  the  white  queen  reign  paramount  again. 

She  must  content  her  with  remembered  things, 

When  her  pale  leaves  were  badge  for  knight  and  earl; 

Pledge  of  a  loyalty  which  was  as  pure. 

As  free  from  stain,  as  those  white  depths  her  leaves 

Unfolded  to  the  earliest  breath  of  June. 

L.  E.  L. 


THE  YOUNG  ROSE. 

The  young  Rose  I  give  thee,  so  dew'y  and  bright, 
Was  the  flow'ret  most  dear  to  the  sweet  bird  of  night. 
Who  oft,  by  the  moon,  o'er  her  blushes  hath  hung. 
And  thrilled  every  leaf  with  the  wild  lay  he  sung. 

Oh,  take  thou  tliis  young  Rose,  and  let  her  life  be 
Prolonged  by  the  breath  she  will  borrow  from  thee ; 
For,  while  o'er  her  bosom  thy  soft  notes  shall  thrill, 
She'll  think  the  sweet  night-bird  is  courting  her  still. 


KOSE  OF  THE  JUESERT. 

Rose  of  the  Desert !  thou,  whose  blushing  ray, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  fleets  unseen  away; 
No  hand  to  cull  thee,  none  to  woo  thy  sigh, — - 
In  vestal  silence  left  to  live  and  die,— 
Rose  of  the  Desert !  thus  should  woman  be. 
Shining  uncourted,  lone  and  safe,  like  thee. 

Rose  of  the  Garden,  how  unlike  thy  doom ! 
Destined  for  others,  not  thyself,  to  bloom; 
Culled  ere  thy  beauty  lives  through  half  its  day; 
A  moment  cherished,  and  then  cast  away; 
Rose  of  the  Garden !   such  is  woman's  lot, — 
Worshipped,  while  blooming — when  she  fades,  forgot. 


THE    ROSE    OF    MAY. 

BY    MARY    HOWITT. 

All,  there's  the  Lily,  marble  pale, 
The  bonny  Broom,  the  Cistus  frail. 
The  rich  Sweet-pea,  the  Iris  blue. 
The  Larkspur  with  its  peacock  hue ; 
Each  one  is  fair  yet  hold  I  will 
That  the  Rose  of  May  is  fairer  still. 

'Tis  grand  'neath  palace  walls  to  grow ; 
To  blaze  where  lords  and  ladies  go ; 
To  hang  o'er  marble  founts,  and  shine 
In  modern  gardens  trim  and  tine ; — 
But  the  Rose  of  May  is  only  seen 
Where  the  great  of  other  days  have  been. 

The  house  is  mouldering  stone  by  stone ; 
The  garden-walks  are  overgrown ; 
The  flowers  are  low ;  the  weeds  are  high 
The  fountain  stream  is  choked  and  dry ; 
The  dial-stone  with  Moss  is  green 
Where'er  the  Rose  of  May  is  seen. 

The  Rose  of  May  its  pride  displayed 
Along  the  old  stone  balustrade ; 


54  THE    BOUQUET. 

And  ancient  ladies,  quaintly  slight, 
In  its  pink  iDlossoms  took  delight, 
And  on  the  steps  would  make  a  stand. 
To  scent  its  sweetness,  fan  in  hand. 

Long  have  been  dead  those  ladies  gay ; 
Their  very  heirs  have  passed  away ; 
And  their  old  portraits,  prim  and  tall, 
Are  mouldering  in  the  mouldering  hall; 
The  terrace  and  the  balustrade 
Lie  broken,  weedy  and  decayed. 

But,  lithe  and  tall,  the  Rose  of  May 
Shoots  upward  through  the  niin  gray, 
With  scented  flower,  and  leaf  pale  green, 
Such  Rose  as  it  hath  ever  been ; 
Left  like  a  noble  deed,  to  grace 
The  memory  of  an  ancient  race. 

What  exact  species  of  Rose  this  is  I  do  not  know ;  it  appears  not 
to  be  approved  of  in  modern  gardens;  at  least,  if  it  be,  it  is  so  much 
altered  by  cultivation  as  to  have  lost  much  of  its  primitive  character. 
I  saw  it  in  three  different  situations  in  Nottinghamshire.  In  the 
small  remains  of  gardens  and  old  labyrinthine  shrubbery  at  Aw- 
thorpe  Hall, — which,  when  we  were  there,  had  just  been  taken 
down, — the  residence  of  the  good  Col.  John  Hutchinson,  and  his 
STv^eet  wife  Lucy ; — ^in  the  very  gardens  which,  as  she  relates  in  his 
life,  he  laid  out,  and  took  so  much  pleasure  in.  It  was  growing, 
also,  with  tall  shoots  and  abundance  of  flowers,  in  the  most  forlorn 
of  gardens,  at  an  old  place  called  Burton  Grange,  a  house  so  deso- 
late and  deserted  as  to  have  gained,  from  a  poetical  friend  of  ours, 
the  appropriate  name  of  the  Dead  House.  It  was  a  dreary  and 
most  lonesome  place ;  the  very  bricks  of  which  it  was  built  were 


THEROSEOFMAY,  55 

bleached  by  long  exposure  to  wind  and  weather; — there  seemed  no 
life  within  or  about  it.  Every  trace  of  furniture  and  wainscot  was 
gone  from  its  interior,  and  its  principal  rooms  were  the  depositories 
of  old  ploughs  and  disused  ladders ;  yet  still  its  roof,  floors  and 
windows  were  in  decent  repair.  It  had  once  upon  a  time  been  a 
well  conditioned  house ;  had  been  moated,  and  its  garden-wall  had 
been  terminated  by  stately  stone  pillars  surmounted  by  well-cut 
urns,  one  of  which,  at  the  time  we  were  there,  lay  overgrown  with 
grass  in  the  ground  beneath;  the  other,  after  a  similar  fail,  had 
been  replaced,  but  with  the  wrong  end  uppermost.  To  add  still 
more  to  its  lonesomeness,  thick,  wild  woods  encompassed  it  on  three 
sides,  whence,  of  an  evening,  and  often  too  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
came  the  voices  of  owls  and  other  gloomy  wood-creatures. 

"  There's  not  a  flower  in  the  garden," — said  a  woman  who,  with 
her  husband  and  child,  we  found  to  our  astonishment,  inhabiting 
what  had  once  been  the  scullery, — "  not  a  flower  but  Feverfew  and 
the  Rose  of  May,  and  you'll  not  think  it  worth  getting."  She  was 
mistaken  ;  I  was  delighted  to  And  this  sweet  and  favourite  Rose  in 
so  ruinous  a  situation. 

Again,  w^e  found  it  in  the  gardens  of  Annesley  Hall,  that  most 
poetical  of  old  mansions  ;  and  the  ancient  housekeeper,  at  that  time 
its  sole  inhabitant,  pointed  out  this  flower  with  a  particular  empha- 
sis. "  And  here's  the  Rose  of  May,"  said  she,  draw  ing  out  a  slender 
spray  from  a  tangle  of  Jessamine  that  hung  about  the  stone-work 
of  the  terrace  ;  "  a  main  pretty  thing,  though  there's  little  store  set 
by  it  now-a-days." 


THE  LILY  AND   THE  RUSE. 

COWPER. 

The  nymph  must  lose  her  female  friend. 
If  more  admir'd  than  she — 

But  where  will  fierce  contention  end, 
If  flowers  can  disagree  ? 

Within  the  garden's  peaceful  scene 

Appeared  two  lovely  foes 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  queen 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 

The  Rose  soon  redden'd  into  rage, 
And  swelling  with  disdain, 

Appeal'd  to  many  a  Poet's  page 
To  prove  her  right  to  reign. 

The  Lily's  height  bespoke  command, 

A  fair  imperial  flower ; 
She  seem'd  design'd  for  Flora's  hand, 

The  sceptre  of  her  power. 


THELILYANDTHEROSE.  57 

This  civil  bickering  and  debate 

The  goddess  chanced  to  hear, 
And  Hew  to  save,  ere  yet  too  late. 

The  pride  of  the  parterre. 

Yours  is,  she  said,  the  nobler  hue, 

And  yours  the  statelier  mein ; 
And,  till  a  third  surpasses  you. 

Let  each  be  deemed  a  queen. 

Thus,  sooth'd  and  reconcil'd,  each  seeks 

The  fairest  British  fair  : 
The  seat  of  empire  is  her  cheeks. 

They  reign  united  there. 


THE  PRETTY  ROSE-TREE. 

Being  weary  of  love, 

I  flew  to  the  grove. 
And  chose  me  a  tree  of  the  fairest ; 

Saying,  "  Pretty  Rose-tree 

Thou  my  mistress  shalt  be, 
A.nd  I'll  worship  each  bud  thou  bearest. 
For  the  hearts  of  this  world  are  hollow, 
And  fickle  the  smiles  we  follow ; 

And  'tis  sweet  when  all 

Their  witch'ries  pall. 
To  have  a  pure  love  to  fly  to ; 

So  my  pretty  Rose-tree, 

Thou  my  mistress  shalt  be, 
And  the  only  orife  now  I  shall  sigh  to." 

When  the  beautiful  hue 

Of  thy  cheek  through  the  dew 
Of  morning  is  bashfully  peeping, 

"  Sweet  tears,"  I  shall  say 

(As  I  brush  them  away), 
"  At  least  there's  no  art  in  this  weeping." 
Although  thou  should'st  die  to-morrow, 
'Twill  not  be  from  pain  or  sorrow ; 

And  the  thorns  of  thy  stem 

Are  not  like  them 
With  which  men  wound  each  other ; 

So  my  pretty  Rose-tree, 

Thou  my  mistress  shalt  be, 
And  I'll  ne'er  sigh  again  to  another. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE. 


MY    &lRiS.    SEBA    SMJTH 

When  stirring  bud  and  songful  bird 
Brought  gladness  to  the  Earth, 

And  spring-time  voices  first  were  heard 
In  low,  sweet  sounds  of  mirth ; 

# 
A  little  child,  with  pleasant  eyes, 

Reclined  in  tranquil  thought. 
And,  half  communing  with  the  skies. 

His  pretty  fancies  wrought. 

He  tum'd  where  cased  in  robes  of  green 
A  Rose-bud  met  his  eye — 

And  one  faint  streak  the  leaves  between. 
Rich  in  its  crimson  dye. 

The  warm  light  gathereth  in  the  sky— 
The  bland  air  stirreth  round — 

And  yet  the  child  is  lingering  by, 
Half  kneeling  on  the  ground  : 


60  THE   BOUQUET. 

For  broader  grew  that  crimson  streak. 
Back  folds  the  leaf  of  green — 

And  he  in  wonder  still  and  meek 
Watched  all  its  opening  sheen. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  done  !"  at  length  he  cried. 
With  glad  amazement  wild — 

The  Rose,  in  new  created  pride. 
Had  open'd  for  the  child. 

Oh  !  had  we  hearts  like  thine,  sweet  boy, 
To  watch  Creative  Power 

We  too  should  thrill  with  kindred  joy 
At  every  opening  flower. 


^,sv- 


1^^l^  / 


THE  TULIP.- 


BY   B.   J.    LOSSING. 


Not  one  of  Flora's  brilliant  race 

A  form  more  perfect  can  display  ; 
Art  could  not  fain  more  simple  grace 

Nor  Nature  take  a  line  away. 

Yet,  rich  as  morn  of  many  a  hue 
^  When  flushing  clouds  through  darkness  strike, 

The  Tulip's  petals  shine  in  dew, 
All  beautiful,  but  none  alike. 

Montgomery. 

Tulips !  Twolips !  what  a  delightful  theme  !  Beauty,  grace,  pas- 
don,  the  purest  offerings  of  the  heart,  the  holiest  memories,  all  bud 
and  blossom  in  the  mind  by  the  Creative  Power  of  the  sweet  name 
of  Tulips— delicious,  blooming  Twolips.  Who  does  not  admire 
Tulips,  aye,  who  that  has  a  heart  to  love,  does  not  at  times  most 
fervently  worship  Twolips. 

•  The  Tulip  belongs  to  the  Liliacae  family,  containing  about  a  dozen  species,  mostly  natives  of 
the  Levant,  or  adjoining  countries  of  Asia.  Their  roots  are  bulbous— leaves,  few  in  number  and  dis- 
poaed  about  the  base  of  the  stem— the  latter  simple  and  usually  terminated  by  a  solitary  flower 
The  calyx  is  wanting— the  corolla  composed  of  six  petals,  and  the  stameni  six  in  number.  The 
most  noted  species  is  the  common  garden  Tulip,  (T.  gesneriana)  which  was  first  introduced  into 
European  gardens  by  Conrad  Gesner,  who,  in  1559  discovered  it  in  the  garden  of  an  amateur  at 
AiUg^burgh      He  had  received  it  from  Constantinople  as  a  present  from  a  friend. 


62  THE    BOUQUET. 

Far  back  amid  the  flitting  shadows  of  grey  antiquity,  and  even 
in  the  dim  twihght  of  the  morning  of  creation,  may  we  perceive 
the  graceful  form  of  these  flowers,  the  fairest  smiles  of  the  Holy 
One  made  tangible  to  mortal  vision.  And  when,  in  the  Garden  of 
the  Lord,  our  primal  Ancestor  awoke  from  his  "  deep  sleep,"  the 
first  objects  that  greeted  his  wondering  eyes,  were  lovely  Twolips, 
blooming  upon  a  stem  of  inexpressible  grace,  while  from  the  petals 
came  perfumes  so  audible  to  the  ear  and  heart  of  this  initial  mortal, 
that  ecstacy  filled  his  soul,  and  bright,  prophetic  visions  of  on-coming 
generations  of  humanity  spread  out  like  a  halo  of  glory  around  him. 
And  when  the  first  Bride  "  walked  in  the  Garden "  or  reclined 
beside  the  bubbling  sources  of  Pison,  and  Gihon,  and  Hiddekel  and 
Euphrates,  sweet  Tulips  bloomed  in  her  path,  or  stood  sentinels 
around  her  couch,  for  in  that  Paradise  was  "  every  herb  bearing 
seed  which  is  upon  the  face  of  all  the  Earth." 

Upon  the  drenched  summit  of  Arrarat,  amid  the  Olive-trees  upon 
its  margin,  and  the  Citron  and  Pomegranate  of  the  plain  below, 
where  rested  the  spring  of  the  Bow  of  Promise,  Tulips  bloomed  in 
all  their  wonderous  beauty. 

"  And  sure  more  lovely  to  behold 

Might  nothing  meet  the  wistful  eye, 
Than  crimson  fading  into  gold 

In  streaks  of  fairest  symmetry." 

Langhorn. 

A  few  generations,  and  the  whole  region  to  Iran  was  redolent 
with  Twolips,  from  whence,  the  adventurous  children  of  the  navi- 
gator-prophet transplanted  them  in  the  soil  of  "  barbaric  Ind," — 
the  *'  clime  of  the  South,  the  land  of  the  Sun,"  and  the  Western 
domain  on  the  border  of  the  "  Sea  of  Tarshish,"   the 

"  land  of  the  Cedar  and  Vine, 


Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine." 


THE   TULIP.  63 

The  descendants  of  Prince  Shem,  conveyed  them  to  the  Indus, — 
of  Duke  Ham,  to  the  Nilotic  Valley, — and  of  Earl  Japhet,  to  the 
Peloponnesees.  There  they  respectively  flourished,  and  in  due 
time,  the  gentle  and  ever  varying  breezes  of  adventure  wafted  a 
fruitful  seed  to  every  Island  and  Continent  of  the  "  habitable  globe." 
But  only  within  the  great  girdles  of  the  temperate  zones  do  they 
flourish  in  all  their  vigor  and  beauty,  for  the  tropical  and  frozen 
regions  are  incongenial  to  their  growth. 

Among  the  Orientals,  where  flowers  constitute  a  language  for  the 
communication  of  hearts,  the  Tulip  is  employed  as  the  emblem  by 
which  a  lover  makes  a  declaration  of  love.  In  our  written  lan- 
guage, the  same  word  in  diff'erent  relations,  expresses  diff'erent 
ideas.  So  with  Tulips.  The  rich,  variegated  flower,  glowing  with 
carnation,  and  humed  with  dew,  is  received  as  a  declaration  of 
love, — 

"  Forever  thine,  whate'er  this  world  betide, 

In  youth,  and  age,  thine  own,  forever  thine." 

A.  A.  Watts. 

while  the  Yellow  Tulip  is  an  emblem  of  hopeless  love — of  love 
unrequited — of  love,  conscious  of  no  sympathizing  response,  and 
whose  plaint  is — 


He  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one  ! 
It  is  no  dream — and  I  am  desolate." 


Byron. 


Nor  are  the  Orientals  the  only  people  who  employ  Twolips  to 
make  a  declaration  of  love,  or  to  express  the  complainings  of  unre- 
quited passion.  They  can  only  claim  pre-eminence  because  of 
priority  of  use ;  for  Twolips  constitute  a  universal  instrument  in 
affairs  of  love.  True,  with  us,  the  Rose  and  the  Lily  have  wonder- 
ous  influence  in  the  vocabulary  of  passion,  when  beauty  assumes  to 
be  interpreter  and  umpire,  yet  these  fail  to  convey  the  heart's 
whole  meaning,  and  Twolips  are  summoned  to  join  the  embassy 
and  give  emphasis  to  the  message. 


64  THE   BOUQUET. 

The  pale,  white  Lily  fading  upon  its  stem,  is  a  fit  symbol  of  hope- 
less love,  and  images  the  departed  beauty  and  present  desolation  of 
the  heart, — yet  the  Lily  is  inadequate  to  the  task  of  revelation,  and 
yellow  Twolips,  with  their  sad,  sallow  petals,  can  alone  convey  the 
full  expression  of  an  unmated  sentiment.  There  is  something  in  the 
*'  sere  and  yellow  leaf"  of  the  Tidipa  sylvestris,  that  tells  of  decay 
and  approaching  death,  and  hence  it  is  that  yellow  Twolips  form  a 
universal  emblem  of  hopeless  love. 

About  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  a  "Tulip  mania" 
prevailed  in  Europe,  some  of  the  details  of  which  seem  quite  incre- 
dible. On  the  first  introduction  of  Tulips  into  Europe  from  Persia, 
via  the  Levant,  they  became  special  favorites  with  gardeners,  and 
in  Holland,  a  mania  for  possessing  rare  kinds  seized  all  classes  of 
people.  This  mania  war  based  not  upon  a  taste  for  the  flowers,  but 
upon  gambling  speculations,  such  as  prevailed  to  some  extent  in  this 
country  a  few  years  ago  with  morus  muUicaidis.  Semper  Augustus 
was  the  name  given  to  the  finest  variety,  and  $2,000,  a  new  carriage, 
a  pair  of  horses  and  harness,  were  given  for  a  single  bulb  of  this 
kind ;  and  it  is  said  that  during  the  height  of  this  mania,  engage- 
ments to  the  amount  of  $25,000  were  made  for  a  single  root  of  a 
particular  sort.  It  is  related  that  one  man,  possessing  a  yearly 
income  of  $50,000  was  reduced  to  beggary  in  the  space  of  four 
months,  by  purchasing  these  flowers  !  The  city  of  Harlaem  alone 
derived  a  revenue  of  fifty  millions  of  dollars  in  the  space  of  three 
years,  from  this  floral  gambling.  During  these  operations,  the  cul- 
tivation of  Tulips  became  an  absorbing  thought  with  florists,  and 
the  species  were  greatly  multiplied.  Count  Pappenheim  boasted  at 
one  time  that  his  garden  contained  five  thousand  varieties. 

A  great  fondness  for  Tulips  still  prevails  in  Holland.  Upwards  of 
three  thousand  dollars  were  lately  paid  by  a  florist  of  Amsterdam, 
for  the  bulb  of  a  new  species  called  "  The  Citadel  of  Antwerp." 

In  all  ages  of  the  world,  a  Twolip  mania  has  prevailed,  under 
the  influence  of  which  men  have  made  the  most  costly  sacrifices  of 


THE    TULIP.  65 

health,  reputation  and  wealth  ;  yet,  the  lesson  of  experience,  taught 
to  one  generation,  have  failed  to  affect  the  next,  and  the  mania  still 
prevails  in  all  its  force.  It  was  this  mania — this  influence  of  Two- 
lips,  that  lost  Adam  his  possession  of  earthly  immortality,  and 
expelled  him  from  Eden ;  and  the  strong  desire  for  the  possession 
of  Twolips  has  left  its  memorials  upon  almost  every  page  of  past 
history ;  some,  brilliant  with  heroic  deeds  of  physical  strength  and 
mental  powers,  and  others  tarnished  with  vulgar  aims  and 
unhallowed  measures.  In  truth,  this  mania,  so  prevalent  and  so 
controlling,  may  he  considered  an  important  part  of  human  organism ; 
and  an  analysis  will  clearly  demonstrate  that  almost  every  achieve- 
ment recorded  by  the  historian,  had  its  incipient  germ,  if  not  its 
budding  flower  and  full  ripe  fruit,  formed  and  fostered  by  a  passion 
for  Twolips.  Speculate  as  we  may  upon  the  autocracy  of  Despots — 
the  strong  governmental  arm  of  Generals — the  will  of  Republican 
majorities — or  the  more  quiet,  yet  equally  potent  sway  of  a  priest- 
hood : — regard  them  as  we  may,  as  the  tangible  instruments  in  the 
government  of  the  race — or  the  rulers  upon  the  thrones  of  Empires — 
we  are  forced  to  acknowledge  that  there  is  a  "  power  behind  the 
throne,  greater  than  the  throne  itself*  and  that  power  is  blooming 

Twolips THE  WORLD  IS  GOVERNED  BY  TWOLIPS. 


ON  PLANTING  A  TULIP  ROOT. 

Here  lies  a  bulb,  the  child  of  Earth, 
Buried  alive  beneath  the  clod, 

Ere  long  to  Spring,  by  second  birth, 
A  new  and  nobler  work  of  God. 

'Tis  said  that  microscopic  power 

Might  through  its  swadhng  folds  descry 

The  infant  image  of  the  flower. 
Too  exquisite  to  meet  the  eye. 

This,  vernal  suns  and  rains  will  swell, 
'Till  from  its  dark  abode  it  peep, 

Like  Venus  rising  from  her  shell, 
Amid'st  the  spring-tide  of  the  deep. 

Two  shapely  leaves  will  first  unfold. 
Then,  on  a  smooth  elastic  stem. 

The  verdant  bud  shall  turn  to  gold. 
And  open  in  a  diadem. 

Not  one  of  Flora's  brilliant  race 
A  form  more  perfect  can  display ; 

Art  could  not  feign  more  simple  grace ; 
Nor  Nature  take  a  line  away. 


ON    PLANTING    A    TULIP   ROOT.  67 

Yet,  rich  as  morn  of  many  a  hue, 

When  flushing  clouds  through  darkness  strike. 
The  Tuhp's  petals  shine  in  dew. 

All  beautiful — but  none  alike. 

Kings,  on  their  bridal,  might  unrobe 

To  lay  their  glories  at  its  foot ; 
And  Queen's  their  sceptre,  crown  and  globe, 

Exchange  for  blossom,  stalk  and  root. 

Here  could  I  stand  and  moralize  ; 

Lady,  I  leave  that  part  to  thee  ; 
Be  thy  next  birth  in  Paradise, 

Thy  hfe  to  come  eternity  !  % 

J.  M. 


TO  THE  CACTUS  SPECIOSISSIMUS. 

BY   MRS.    SIGOURNEY. 

Who  hung  thy  beauty  on  such  rugged  stalk, 
Thou  glorious  flower  ? 

Who  pour'd  the  richest  hues. 
In  varying  radiance,  o'er  thine  ample  brow. 
And  like  a  mesh  those  tissued  stamens  laid 
Upon  thy  crimson  lip  ? — 

Thou  glorious  flower ! 
Methinks  it  were  no  sin  to  worship  thee. 
Such  passport  hast  thou  from  thy  Maker's  hand, 
To  thrill  the  soul.     Lone  on  thy  leafless  stem. 
Thou  bid'st  the  queenly  Rose  with  all  her  buds 
Do  homage,  and  the  green-house  peerage  bow 
Their  rainbow  coronets. 

Hast  thou  no  thought  ? 
No  intellectual  life  ?  thou  who  can'st  wake 
Man's  heart  to  such  communings  ?  no  sweet  word 
With  which  to  answer  him  ?     'Twould  almost  seem 
That  so  much  beauty  needs  must  have  a  soul, 
And  that  such  form,  as  tints,  the  gazer's  dream. 
Held  higher  spirit  than  the  common  clod 
On  \^  hich  we  tread. 


TO   THE   CACTUS    SPEC  lOSISSI  MU  S.  69 

Yet  while  we  muse,  a  bliglit 
Steals  o'er  thee,  and  thy  shrinking  bosom  shows 
The  mournful  symptoms  of  a  wan  disease. 
I  will  not  stay  to  see  thy  beauties  fade. 
Still  must  I  bear  away  within  my  heart 
Thy  lesson  of  our  own  mortality, 
The  fearful  withering  of  each  blossom'd  bough 
On  which  we  lean,  of  every  bud  we  fain, 
Would  hide  within  our  bosoms  from  the  touch 
Of  the  destroyer. 

So  instruct  us,  Lord ! 
Thou  Father  of  the  sunbeam  and  the  soul. 
Even  by  the  simple  sermon  of  a  flower. 
To  cling  to  Thee. 


THE  HYACINTH. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF   KRUMMACHER 

Emily  complained  of  the  length  of  winter. — For  she  loved  flowers 
dearly,  and  had  a  small  garden  where  she  cultivated  the  most  beau- 
tiful with  her  own  hands.  Therefore  she  longed  for  the  departure 
of  Winter  and  the  approach  of  Spring. 

One  day  her  father  said  to  her,  "  see,  Emily,  I  have  brought  you 
a  flower  root.     But  you  must  cultivate  it  yourself  with  care." 

"How  can  I,  dear  father,"  replied  the  girl. — "The  fields  are 
covered  with  snow,  and  the  ground  is  as  hard  as  a  stone ! " 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  she  knew  not  that  flowers  could  be  cultiva- 
ted in  vases,  for  she  had  never  seen  it.  But  her  father  gave  her  a 
small  pot  filled  with  earth,  and  Emily  planted  the  flower  root.  And 
she  looked  at  her  father  and  smiled,  as  if  she  doubted  his  sincerity. 
For  she  thought  that  a  clear  blue  sky  must  be  spread  over  the 
flowers,  and  that  the  gentle  breath  of  air  must  breathe  around  them, 
and  did  not  dream  that  magnificence  could  flourish  in  her  hands. 

"  For  modest  youthful  simplicity  knows  not  its  own  power." 

After  a  few  days  the  earth  rose  in  the  vase,  and  green  leaves 
came  forth  and  appeared  in  the  light — and  Emily  rejoiced  and  an- 
nounced to  her  father  and  mother,  and  to  the  whole  house  the  birth 
of  the  young  plant, 


THE    HYACINTH.  71 

"  How  little  is  necessary,"  said  the  mother,  "  to  give  joy  to  the 
heart,  as  long  as  it  remains  true  to  Nature  and  simplicity." 

Emily  moistened  the  young  plant  with  water,  and  smiled  on  it 
with  delight.  The  father  observed  her  and  said,  "  this  is  right  my 
child !  Sunshine  must  follow  the  rain  and  dew.  The  beam  of  the 
smiling  eye  gives  value  to  every  good  deed  that  the  hand  performs. 
Your  young  plant  will  doubtless  thrive  Emily." 

Now  the  leaves  came  out  of  the  earth,  completely  formed  and 
shining  with  lovely  green.  And  EmlTy's  joy  was  increased.  "  Oh," 
said  she  with  an  overflowing  heart,  "I  will  be  satisfied  if  it  never 
blooms."  "  Contented  soul !"  said  the  father.  "  It  is  just  that  more 
should  be  given  you  than  you  venture  to  hope  for.  Such  is  the 
reward  of  modest  contentment."  And  he  shewed  her  the  bud  of 
the  flower  that  lay  concealed  among  the  leaves. 

Emily's  care  and  affection  increased  every  day  as  the  flower 
gradually  unfolded.  With  her  tender  hands  she  sprinkled  water 
upon  it,  inquiring  whether  it  were  enough  or  too  much,  and  whether 
it  might  not  possibly  be  too  cold  for  the  plant.  Whenever  the  Sun 
looked  through  the  windo\^',  she  placed  it  with  a  light  step,  in  its 
rays,  like  the  gentle  breeze  of  the  morning  that  plays  around  the 
Rose.  "Oh,  sweet  union  of  the  tenderest  love  and  innocence!" 
said  the  mother. 

Emily's  flower  occupied  her  latest  thoughts  at  night,  and  her  first 
thoughts  in  the  morning.  In  her  dreams  she  often  saw  her  Hya- 
cinth in  full  bloom,  and  when  she  discovered  the  next  morning  that 
it  had  not  blown,  and  that  she  had  been  deceived,  she  seemed  per- 
fectly unconcerned,  and  said,  smiling,  "  it  may  still  come  to  pass." 
Sometimes  she  asked  her  father  in  what  colors  the  flower  would  be 
dressed.  And  when  she  had  mentioned  every  shade,  she  would 
say  in  a  cheerful  tone,  "  it  is  all  one  to  me,  if  it  only  blooms ; " 
"  Sweet  fantasy  "  said  the  father,  "  how  beautifully  dost  thou  play 
around  innocent  love  and  youthful  hope  ! " 

At  length  the  flower  bloomed.     Twelve  bells  had  opened  at  the 


72  THE   BOUQUET. 

dawn  of  morning.  They  hung  suspended  between  five  dark  green 
leaves  in  the  fulness  of  youthful  beauty.  Their  color  was  red,  like 
the  reflection  of  the  rising  Sun  in  the  delicate  tinge  of  Emily's 
cheek.  A  balmy  fragrance  surrounded  the  flower.  It  was  a  serene 
March  morning.  Emily  had  never  conceived  such  magnificence. 
Her  joy  was  noiseless  and  without  words.  She  kneeled  before  the 
flower  and  viewed  it  in  silence.  At  this  moment  her  father  entered 
and  looked  at  his  beloved  child  and  the  blooming  Hyacinth,  and  his 
heart  was  touched  vdth  emotion.  "  Behold  "  said  he,  "  what  the 
Hyacinth  is  to  you,  you  are  to  us,  Emily ! " 

Then  the  maiden  sprang  up  and  clasped  her  father  in  her  arms, 
and  after  a  long  embrace,  she  whispered,  "  Oh,  my  father  may  I  also 
bloom  as  beautifully  as  this  flower." 


THE  SPRIG  OF  WINTERGREEN. 

BY   C.    F.    HOFFMAN. 

It  grew  not  in  the  golden  clime 

Where  painted  birds,  in  bowers  iis  gay, 
Their  notes  on  Tropic  breezes  chime. 

While  Nature  keeps  her  hoUday  ! 
'Neath  Northern  Stars  its  leaflets  first 

Expanded  to  the  wooing  air, 
And,  in  the  lonely  wild-wood  nurs'd. 

It  learn'd  the  Northern  blast  to  bear. 

Transplanted  from  its  simple  home — 

By  rocky  dell  or  wind-swept  hill — 
Like  birds  in  stranger  climes  that  roam. 

And  keep  their  native  wood-notes  still — 
Still  in  its  glossy  verdure  dress'd, 

It  blooms,  unchang'd  with  change  of  scene. 
An  emblem  on  its  wearer's  breast 

Of  Truth  and  Purity  within. 


THE   BLUE-BELL. 

"  I  would  not  be  a  floweret  hung 

On  higli  in  mountain  snows ; 
Nor  o'er  a  castle  wall  be  flung 
All  stately  though  it  rose  : 
I'd  breathe  no  sighs 
For  cloudless  skies. 

Nor  perfumed  Eastern  gale, . 
So  I  might  be 
A  Blue-bell  free, 

In  some  low  verdant  vale. 

"  For  there  the  swains  and  maidens  meet. 

With  Summer  sport  and  song. 
And  Fairies  lead  with  unseen  feet 
Their  moonlight  dance  along  : 
Each  tiny  lip 
Would  gladly  sip 

The  dew  my  cup  enshrined. 
And  next  morn's  Bee 
Would  drink  from  me 

The  sweets  they  left  behind. 

"  The  Laurel  hath  a  loftier  name, 
The  Rose  a  brighter  hue, 


THE    BLUE    BELL.  75 

But  Heaven  and  I'd  be  clad  the  same 
In  fair  and  fadeless  blue  : 
No  blood-stain'd  chief 
Ere  plucks  this  leaf, 

To  make  his  wreath  more  gay ! 
Though  still  its  flower 
Decks  village  bower. 

And  twines  the  shafts  of  May." 

Sweet  Florence  !  may  thy  gentle  breast 

As  artless  pleasures  swell, 
As  those  thou  deemest  still  to  rest 
In  thy  beloved  Blue-bell ! 
And  may'st  thou  feel, 
Though  time  shall  steal 

Thy  beauty's  freshest  hue, 
A  bhss  still  shed 
Around  thy  head, — 

fuchani^'d  like  Heaw^u^  own  blue  ! 

R.  T 


FLOWEKS. 

BY   A.   M.   M. 

Emblems  of  purity. 
Brightest  of  earth. 

Children  of  innocence, 
Blest  was  thy  birth. 

Eden's  magnificence, 
Gems  of  the  heath, 

Love's  own  interpreters*. 
I'oesy's  wreatli. 

Charming  and  soothing 
The  desolate  heart, 

Peerless  and  beautiful 
Surely  thou  art. 


as  tliy  birth. 


FLOWERS  AND    FAIRIES 


BY   KATE. 


» 


It  was  a  midsummer's  day  in  merrie  England,  the  last  tones  of 
the  village  bell  striking  the  hour  of  noon  had  ceased  to  echo  in  the 
dim  green  recesses  of  the  forest,  and  all  was  still  save  nature's 
music,  the  low  rippling  of  the  streamlet  as  it  glided  on,  here  laying 
bare  the  root  of  some  huge  old  tree,  and  anon  sweeping  by  in  its 
whirling  eddies  some  broken  flower,  bearing  it  far  away  till  its 
course  was  lost  in  the  sunny  meadows.  The  very  birds  had  ceased 
to  sing,  save  some  solitary  warbler,  and  sat  in  languid  silence  among 
the  many  branches ;  but  a  step  came  bounding  upon  the  green  turf, 
and  the  birds  opened  their  bright  eyes,  and  peered  down  from  their 
leafy  canopy  upon  a  fair-haired  maiden  who  stood  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  spreading  oak.  A  low  warbling  rang  through  the 
woods.     They  w^ere  discoursing  in  their  own  language. 

Sweet  Alice  Grey !  fifteen  summers  had  passed  over  her  head, 
and  yet  the  flowers  and  birds  were  dearer  to  her  than  all  beside, 
and  with  some  old  volume  of 

<'  Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age 
And  chronicles  of  Eld." 

she  was  wont  to  while  time  away  in  the  green  solitudes.  The  leafy 
branches  swayed  lovingly  over  her,  as,  reclining  upon  a  mossy  seat, 
she  perused  some  marvellous  tale  of  Fairy  lore,  and  then  she  won- 


78  THE    BOUQUET. 

clered  if  such  another  race  inhabited  the  fair  Earth,  and  gazing  into 
the  shadowy  woods  endeavoured  to  discover  their  haunts — the 
magic  ring — never  dreaming,  O  most  innocent  Alice  !  that  while 
she  looked  for  other  beings,  a  youthful  artist  staid  his  ramble  to 
sketch  from  the  opposite  bank  the  lovely  picture  before  him.  As 
thus  she  mused  the  soft  air  came  to  her  laden  with  fragrance ;  gradu- 
ally a  strain  of  far  away  melody  stole  upon  her  ear,  the  brook  went 
murmuring  low  and  sweet  at  her  feet,  and  Alice  was  asleep  *  *  *  * 
but  she  had  changed  her  position  and  gone  to  the  other  side  of  the 
"  huge  oak  tree,"  for  there  the  blossoms  grew  more  luxuriantly. 
Sweet  Violets,  the  pale  Anemone,  Wild  Rose,  and  graceful  Eglan- 
tine, were  blooming  around,  enclosed  within  a  ring  of  the  misty 
brake,  seeming  with  its  long  arms  to  encircle  these  gems  of  the 
forest ;  and  as  she  looked  upon  their  beauty  again,  the  music  came 
ringing  wild  and  clear  till  the  bright  flowers  themselves  seemed  to 
take  up  the  chorus,  and  in  small  sweet  voices  sing  praises  to  the 
gentle  Sun  and  mild  dews.  Alice  looked  up.  The  setting  Sun  was 
casting  a  parting  glory  upon  the  tree  tops,  and  when  she  looked 
again  upon  the  greensward  a  tiny  and  beautiful  form  stood  beside 
each  blossom,  while  with  one  foot  poised  upon  a  Rose  stood  a  being 
more  beautiful  than  aught  human,  and  the  Fairies  bowed  their 
heads,  when  in  silvery  accents  she  spoke  : — 

"  Fair  mortal,  we  have  watched  you  through  the  long  Summer's 
day  when  you  have  visited  our  presence,  and  we  know  your  love 
for  the  young  flowers.  Have  you  never  dreamed  that  the  Fairies 
and  flowers  are  one  ?  and  when  they  fade  from  the  Earth  for  a 
season,  we  unseen  spirits,  hover  around  the  pillow  of  the  young  and 
innocent,  sending  them  sweet  dreams  of  the  future.  We  have  each 
our  mission,  and  to  those  we  love  best  we  grant  our  peculiar  gift ; 
but  to  you,  O  tender  daughter  of  a  human  race,  we  give  the  choice." 
IShe  paused,  and  a  hundred  sweet  voices  repeated  the  chorus. 

"  I  am  the  queen  of  beauty — my  gift  is  the  mantling  blush  upon 


FLOWERS   ANT   FAIRIES.  79 

the  maiden's  cheek ;  I  can  endow  you  with  loveliness  beyond  all 
other  mortals  :  shall  I  dwell  with  you  ?" 

«  Ah,  mine  is  the  power  of  genius,"  spoke  a  Fairy  from  beside 
the  Iris',  "  who  can  withstand  it  ?  Beauty  will  fade,  the  cheek  may 
pale,  the  bright  eye  grow  dim,  but  I  endure  forever,  and  monarch's 
bow  before  my  spells." 

"  I  can  give  you  an  ear  attuned  to  all  harmony,"  murmured  a 
voice  from  the  Lily  Bell ;  "  where  other  mortals  listen  for  no  sound, 
to  you  there  will  be  sweetest  music ;  the  low  breeze  that  sweeps 
around  you  at  eventide  will  whisper  mournful  melodies,  and  every 
breath  of  air  be  laden  with  unwritten  music,  wrapping  the  senses 
in  Elysium.  ****** 

One  by  one  the  fairies  spoke,  and  then  each  upon  her  flowery 
throne  sat  in  silence ;  one  alone  had  been  mute. 
"  And  has  the  Violet  no  gift  ?"   sighed  AUce. 
"  The  gift  of  the  Violet  is  purity,  modesty,  and  a  gentle  heart," 
whispered  a  voice  like  the  dying  strain  of  an  ^olian.     AUce  looked 
upon  the  flowers  and  hesitated  :  the  gifts  were  written  upon  her 
heart,  and  each  appealed,  aided  by  the  charm  of  imagination.     Agam 
she  looked  upon  the  Violet,  and  to  her  eyes  it  seemed  fan-er  and 
brighter  than  its  companions.     She  gathered  and  pressed  it  to  her 
lips      "This  is  my  choice,"  she  said  as  the  air  seemed  more  fra- 
grant :  the  music  rose  with  a  richer  swell,  and  the  passing  breeze, 
as  it  floated  by,  wafted  the  petals  of  the  Rose  toward  her.     *       * 

Alice  awoke-it  was  evening-the  night  wind  was  sighmg  through 
the  branches  above  her,  and  the  flowers  looked  up  pale  and  quiet  m 
the  clear  starlight ;  but  the  fairies  had  passed  away.  Silently  she 
gathered  her  mantle  around  her  and  stole  away  through  the  dim 

shadows.  .  , 

And  in  the  greenwood  bower  there  wanders  a  gentle  maiden  with 
a  chaplet  of  Violets  wreathed  in  her  sunny  hair,  a  symbol  of  the  pu- 
rity  within. 


THE  MYRTLE 


BY    MONTGOMERY. 


Dark-green  and  gemmed  with  flower.s  of  snow, 
With  close  uncrowded  branches  spread, 

Not  proudly  high,  nor  meanly  low, 
A  graceful  Myrtle  reared  its  head. 

Its  mantle  of  unwithering  leaf, 

Seem'd  in  my  contemplative  mood, 

Like  silent  joy,  or  patient  grief. 
The  symbol  of  pure  gratitude. 

Still  life,  methought,  is  thine,  fair  tree ! 

Then  pluck'd  a  sprig,  and  while  I  mused, 
With  idle  hands,  unconsciously. 

The  delicate  small  foliage  bruised. 

Odours  at  my  rude  touch  set  free. 
Escaped  from  all  their  secret  cells; 

Quick  Ufe,  I  cried,  is  thine,  fair  tree ! 
In  thee  a  soul  of  fragrance  dwells : 


THE   MYRTLE, 


81 


Which  outrage,  wrongs,  nor  wounds  destroy- 
But  wake  its  sweetness  from  repose ; 

Ah !  could  I  thus  Heaven's  gifts  employ. 
Worth  seen,  worth  hidden  thus  disclose : 

In  health,  with  unpretending  grace. 

In  wealth,  with  meekness  and  with  fear, 

Through  every  season  wear  one  face, 
And  be  in  truth  what  I  appear. 

Then  should  affliction's  chastening  rod 
Bruise  my  frail  frame,  or  break  my  heart. 

Life,  a  sweet  sacrifice  to  God, 

Out  breathed  like  incense  would  depart. 


The  Captain  of  Salvation  thus, 

When  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 

Was,  by  the  Father's  will,  for  us. 
Himself  through  suffering  purified. 


THE   WATER-LILY. 


M  K  8 .    H  K  M  A  i\  S . 


Oil,  beautiful  thou  nrt, 
Thou  .sculpture-like  and  stately  River-quceii  I 
Cro\Miing  the  depths,  as  with  the  light  serene 

Of  a  pure  heart. 

Bright  Lily  ot  the  wave  ! 
Rising  in  fearless  grace  with  every  swell. 
Thou  seem'st  as  if  a  spirit  meekly  brave 

Dwelt  in  thy  cell : 

Lifting  alike  thy  head, 
Of  placid  beauty,  feminine  yet  free. 
Whether  with  foam  or  pictured  azure  spread 

The  waters  be. 

What  is  like  thee,  fair  flower, 
The  gentle  and  the  hrm  ?  thus  bearing  up 
To  the  blue  sky  that  alabaster  cup, 

As  to  the  shower. 


THE    WATER    LILY.  33 

Oh  !  Love  is  most  like  thee, 
The  love  of  woman ;  quivering  to  the  blast 
Through  every  nen-e,  yet  rooted  deep  and  fast 

'Midst  Life's  dark  sea. 

And  faith — Oh  !  is  not  faith 
Like  thee,  too,  Lily  ?  springing  into  light, 
Still  buoyant,  above  the  billow's  might, 

Through  the  storm's  breath  ? 

Yes,  link'd  with  such  high  thoughts, 
Flower,  let  thine  image  in  my  bosom  lie  ! 
Till  something  there  of  its  own  purity 

And  peace  be  wrought. 

Something  yet  more  divine 
Than  the  clear,  pearly,  virgin  lustre  shed 
Forth  from  thy  breast  upon  the  river's  bed. 

As  from  a  shrine. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

BY  GEORGE   CROLY. 

White  hud,  in  meek  heauty  so  dost  lean 

Thy  cloister'd  cheek  as  pale  as  moonlight  snow, 

Thou  seem'st  beneath  thy  huge,  high  leaf  of  green, 
An  Eremite  beneath  his  mountain's  brow. 

White  bud  !  thou'rt  emblem  of  a  lovelier  thing, 
The  broken  spirit  that  its  anguish  bears 

To  silent  shades,  and  there  sits  offering 
To  Heaven  the  holy  fragrance  of  its  tears. 


THE   SNOWDROP, 


L.E.L. 


Thou  beautiful  new  comer, 

With  white  and  maiden  brow ; 
Thou  fairy  gift  from  summer, 

Why  art  thou  blooming  now  ^ 
This  dim  and  shelter'd  alley 

Is  dark  with  Winter  green; 
Not  such  as  in  the  valley 

At  sweet  springtime  is  seen. 

The  Limetree's  tender  yellow. 

The  Aspen's  silvery  sheen, 
With  mingling  colours  mellow 

The  universal  green. 
Now  solemn  yews  are  bending 

'Mid  gloomy  fires  around ; 
And  in  long  dark  wreaths  descending 

The  Ivy  sweeps  the  ground. 

No  sweet  companion  pledges 

Thy  health  as  Dew-drops  pass  ; 
No  Rose  is  on  the  hedges, 

No  Violet  in  the  s^rass. 


86  THE   BOUQUET 

Thou  art  watching,  and  thou  only, 
Above  the  Earth's  snow  tomb  ; 

Thus  lovely,  and  thus  lonely 
T  bless  thee  for  thy  bloom. 

Though  the  singing  rill  be  frozen 
While  the  wind  forsakes  the  West 

Though  the  singing  birds  have  chosen 
Some  lone  and  silent  rest ; 

Like  thee,  one  sweet  thought  lingers 
In  a  heart  else  cold  and  dead, 

Though  the  Summer's  flowers,  and  singers, 
And  sunshine,  long  hath  fled. 

'Tis  the  love  for  long  years  cherish'd. 

Yet  lingering,  lorn,  and  lone ; 
Though  its  lovelier  lights  have  perish'd, 

And  its  earlier  hopes  have  flv-wn. 
Though  a  weary  world  hath  bound  it. 

With  many  a  heavy  thrall : 
And  the  cold  and  changed  surround  it. 

It  blossometh  o'er  all. 


THE  NIGHT-SHADE. 

BARRY    CORNWALL. 

Tread  aside  from  my  starry  bloom ! 
I  am  the  nurse  who  feed  the  tomb 

(The  tomb,  my  child) 

With  dainties  plied 
Until  it  grows  strong  as  a  tempest  wild., 

Trample  not  on  a  virgin  flower! 

1  am  the  maid  of  the  midnight  hour ; 

I  bear  sweet  sleep 

To  those  who  weep. 
And  lie  on  their  eyelids  dark  and  deep. 

Tread  not  thou  on  my  snaky  eyes  ! 
I  am  the  worm  that  the  ^^  eary  prize, 

The  Nile's  soft  asp, 

That  they  strive  to  grasp, 
And  one  that  a  queen  has  loved  to  clasp  ! 

Pity  me  !  I  am  she  whom  man 

Hath  hated  since  ever  the  world  began  ; 

I  sooth  his  brain. 

In  the  night  of  pain. 
But  at  morning  he  waketh— and  all  is  vain  ! 


CO  ^V  SLIPS. 


HOWITT 


Oh  !  fragrant  dwellers  of  the  lea, 
When  iirst  the  wild  wood  rings 
With  each  sound  of  vernal  minstrelsy, 
When  fresh  the  green  grass  springs ! 

What  can  the  blessed  Spring  restore 
More  gladdening  than  your  cliarms  1 
Bringing  the  memory  once  more 
Of  lovely  lields  and  farms  ! 

Of  thickets,  breezes,  birds,  and  flowers ; 
Of  life's  unfolding  prime  ; 
Of  thoughts  as  cloudless  as  the  hours ; 
Of  souls  without  a  crime. 

Oh  !  blessed,  blessed  do  ye  sQem, 
For,  even  now,  I  turn'd, 
With  soul  athirst  for  wood  and  stream. 
From  streets  that  irlared  and  burn'd  : 


t 


THE    COWSLIP.  89 

From  the  hot  town,  where  mortal  care 
His  crowded  fold  doth  pen ; 
Where  stagnates  the  polluted  air 
In  many  a  sultry  den. 

And  ye  are  here  !  and  ye  are  here  ! 
Drinking  the  dew-like  wine, 
'Midst  living  gales,  and  w^aters  clerir, 
And  Heaven's  unstinted  shine. 

I  care  not  that  your  little  life 

Will  quickly  have  run  through, 

And  the  sward,  with  Summer  children  rife, 

Keep  not  a  trace  of  you. 

For  again,  again,  on  dewy  plain, 

I  trust  to  see  you  rise. 

When  Spring  renew^s  the  wild  wood  strain, 

And  bluer  gleam  the  skies. 

Again,  again,  when  many  Springs 
Upon  my  grave  shall  shine, 
Here  shall  you  speak  of  vanish'd  things*. 
To  living  hearts  of  mine. 


GOSSIP  WITH  A  BOUQUET  OF  SPRING  FLOWERS, 

BY    MRS.     L.    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

Speak,— Speak,  sweet  guests.     Open  your  lips  in  words. 
'Tis  my  delight  to  talk  with  you,  and  fain 
I'd  have  an  answer.     I've  been  long  convinc'd 
You  understand  me, — though  you  do  not  choose 
To  wear  your  bright  thoughts  on  your  finger-tips 
For  all  to  sport  with. 

Lily  of  the  Vale, 
And  you,  meek  Violet,  with  your  eyes  of  blue, 
I  call  on  you  the  first, — for  v>  ell  I  know 
How  prone  our  village  maidens  are,  to  hide 
Their  clear  good  sense  among  the  city  folks. 
Unless  well-urged  and  fortified  to  speak. 

O  purple  Pansy,  friend  of  earliest  years. 

You're  always  welcome.     Have  you  never  heard 

From  some  old  grandmother,  in  cushion' d  chair 

Sitting  at  Autumn,  of  your  ancestors, 

Who  on  the  shelter'd  margin  of  the  Thames 

Flourish'd,  more  vigorous  and  more  fair  than  you  ? 


GOSSIP    WITH    A    BOUQUET   OF    SPRING   FLOWERS.  91 

'Twas  not  the  fond  garrulity  of  age 

That  made  her  laud  the  past, — without  respect 

To  verity, — for  I  remember  well 

How  beautiful  they  were,— and  with  what  pride 

I  us'd  to  pluck  them,  when  my  school  was  o'er, 

And  love  to  place  them,  rich  with  breathing  sweets 

Between  my  Bible  leaves,  and  find  them  there, 

Month  after  month,  laying  their  foreheads  close 

To  some  undying  hope. 

Bright  Hyacinth 
I'm  glad  you've  brought  your  little  ones.     How  snug 
You  wrap  them  in  their  hoods.     But  still  I  see 
Their  merry  eyes  and  their  plump  cheeks  peep  out. 
Ah  !  here's  the  baby  in  its  blanket  too  : 
You're  a  good  mother  sure.     Don't  be  in  haste 
To  take  their  mantels  off.     The  morn  is  chill, 
I'd  rather  see  them  one  by  one  come  forth. 
Just  when  they  please.     A  charming  family  ! 
And  very  happy  you  must  doubtless  be. 
In  their  sweet  promise,  and  your  matron  care. 

Gay,  graceful  Tulip,  did  you  learn  in  France 

Your  taste  for  dress  ?  and  how  to  hold  your  head 

So  elegantly  ?     In  the  gale  yestreen. 

That  o'er  the  parterre  swept  with  sudden  force, 

I  thought  I  saw  you  waltzing,  and  am  sure 

Those  steps  were  taught  in  Paris.     Have  a  care, 

And  do  not  be  too  exquisite  with  those 

You  call  the  dowdy  flowers,  because,  my  dear, 

We  live  in  a  republic,  where  the  strength 

Comes  from  beneath,  and  many  a  change  occurs 

To  lop  the  haughty,  and  to  lift  the  low. 


92  THE    BOUQUET. 

Good  neighbour  Cowslip, — I  have  seen  the  bee 
Whispering  to  you,  and  have  been  told  he  stays 
Quite  long  and  late,  amid  your  golden  cells. 
It  must  be  business  that  he  comes  upon, 
Matter  of  fact,  he  never  wastes  an  hour. 
Know  you  that  he's  a  subtle  financier  ? 
And  rifles  where  he  can  ?  and  has  the  name 
Of  taking  usury  ?     So,  have  a  care. 
And  don't  invest  without  good  hope  of  gain. 
I  would  not  be  a  slanderer, — but  just  give 
A  little  kind  advice. 

Narcissus  pale, — 
Had  you  a  mother,  child,  who  kept  you  close 
Over  your  needle,  or  your  music  books  ? 
And  never  let  you  sweep  a  room,  or  make 
A  pudding  in  the  kitchen  ?     I'm  afraid 
She  shut  you  from  the  air  and  tanning  Sun, 
To  keep  you  delicate, — or  let  you  draw 
Your  corset  lace  too  tight.     I  would  you  were 
As  buxom  as  your  cousin  Daffodil, 
Who  to  the  sharp  wind  turns  her  tawney  cheek, 
Unshrinking,  like  a  damsel  taught  to  spin. 
And  milk  the  cows,  and  knead  the  bread,  and  lead 
An  useful  life,  her  nerves  by  labor  strung. 
To  bear  its  duties  and  its  burdens  too. 

Lilac  of  Persia,  tell  us  some  fine  tale 

Of  Eastern  lands.     We're  fond  of  travellers. 

Have  you  no  legend  of  some  Sultan  proud  ? 

Or  old  fire-worshipper  ?     Not  even  a  note 

Taken  on  your  voyage  ?     Well,  'tis  monstrous  odd. 

That  you  should  let  so  rare  a  chance  slip  by. 


GOSSIP    WITH    A    BOUQUET    OF    SPRING    FLOWERS.  93 

While  those  who  never  journey'd  half  as  far 
Make  sundry  volumes,  and  expect  the  w^orld 
To  reverently  peruse,  and  magnify 
What  it  well  knew  before. 

Most  glorious  Rose, 
You  are  the  queenly  belle.     On  you,  all  eyes 
Admiring  turn.     Doubtless,  you  might  indite 
Romances  from  your  own  remembrances. 
They're  all  the  fashion  now,  and  fill  the  page 
Of  many  a  periodical.     Wilt  tell 
None  of  your  heart-adventures  ?     Mighty  cross 
To  hoard  them  all  so  secretly.     Well !  well ! 
I  can  detect  the  zephyr's  stolen  kiss, 
In  your  red  blush  ;— and  what's  the  use  to  seal 
Your  lips  so  cunningly, — when  all  the  world 
Call  you  the  flower  of  love. 

And  now,  good  bye, 
A  pleasant  gossip  have  1  had  with  you, 
Obliging  visitants,— but  must  away 
To  graver  things.     Still  keep  your  incense  fresh 
And  free  to  speak  to  Him,  who  tints  your  brows. 
Bidding  the  brown  mould  and  unsightly  stem 
Put  forth  such  blaze  of  beauty,  as  translates 
To  dullest  hearts.  His  dialect  6f  love. 


THE  VASE  OF  FLOWERS. 

BY    lANTHE, 

Gay  treasure-house  of  every  sweet, 

Where  loveliness  and  perfume  meet ; 

Where  beauty  of  each  form  and  dye 

Wooes  the  young  breeze  with  tresses  flying, 

And  pouring  forth  its  bosom  sigh, 

Is  far  more  cherished  for  its  sighing — 

Here  the  proud  heart  may  lessons  find 

Of  lowliness  and  peace  of  mind  ; 

May  hear  of  fame  and  meekness  met 

In  the  retiring  Violet : 

Here  flowers  which  court  the  warm  Sun's  rays, 

And  die  in  its  too  ardent  gaze, 

Whisper  a  moral,  if  we  turn 

When  Nature  speaks,  to  hear  and  learn. 

Each  bursting  bud,  each  opening  leaf 

Some  emblem  yields  of  joy  or  grief. 

How  like  the  heart  wherein  are  cast 

Bright  hopes  too  fair  and  frail  to  last. 

Are  all  the  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers 

That  blossom  in  this  world  of  ours. 

They  bloom  to  fade — but  fade  to  bloom. 

While  virtue  will  survive  the  tomb. 


i^J^,     VVV/Z^'^i:^^^^  €^.i^^€Z^M^4yak:^k^~S^^ 


FLOWERS. 

Flowers,  of  all  created  tilings,  are  the  most  innocent  and  simple, 
and  most  superbly  complex;  playthings  for  cliildren,  ornaments  for 
the   grave,  and  the  companion  of  the  cold  corpse  in  the   coffin. 
Flo\N  ers,  beloved  by  the  wandering  idiot,  and  studied  by  the  deep 
thinking  man  of  science  !     Flowers,  that  of  all  perishing  things  are 
the  most  perishitig ;  yet  of  aU  earthly  things,  are  the  most  heavenly ! 
Flowers,  that  unceasingly  expand  to  Heaven  their  grateful,  and  to 
man  their  cheerful  looks ;  partners  of  human  joy,  soothers  of  human 
sorrow;  fit  emblems  of  the  victor's  triumphs,  of  the  young  bride's 
blushes;   welcome  to  crowded  halls,  and   graceful  upon  solitary 
graves  !     Flowers  are,  in  the  volume  of  nature,  what  the  expression 
"  God  is  love,"  is  in  the  volume  of  Revelation. 

What  a  dreary,  desolate  place  would  be  a  face  without  a  smile— 

a  feast  without  a  welcome !    Are  not  flowers  the  Stars  of  Earth,  and 

are  not  Stars  the  flowers  of  Heaven  ?     One  cannot  look  closely  at 

the  structure  of  a  flower  w  ithout  losing  it.     They  are  emblems  and 

manifestations  of  God's  love  to  creation,  and  they  are  the  means 

and  ministrations  of  man's  love  to  his  fellow-creatures,  for  they  first 

awaken  in  his  mind  a  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  the  good.     The 

very  inutility  of  flowers  is  their  excellence  and  great  beauty :  tor 

they  lead  us  to  thoughts  of  generosity  and  moral  beauty,  detached 

from,  and  superior  to,  all  selfishness,  so  that  they  are  pretty  lessons 

in  nature's  book  of  instruction,  teaching  man  that  he  liveth  not 

by  bread,  or  from  bread  alone,  and  that  he  hath  another  than  an 

animal  life. 


WILD  ORANGE  GROVES. 

Nothing  can  be  more  gladdening  to  the  traveller,  Avhen  passing 
through  the  uninhabited  woods  of  East  Florida,  than  the  Avild 
Orange  groves  which  he  sometimes  meets  \\  ith.  As  I  approached 
tliem,  tlie  rich  perfume  of  the  blossoms,  the  golden  hue  of  the  fruits 
that  hung  on  every  twig,  and  lay  scattered  on  the  ground,  and  the 
deep  green  of  the  glossy  leaves,  never  failed  to  produce  the  most 
pleasing  eifect  on  my  mind.  Not  a  branch  has  suifered  from  the 
pruning-knife,  and  the  graceful  form  of  the  trees  retains  the  ele- 
gance it  received  from  nature.  Raising  their  tops  into  the  open  air 
they  alio\s  the  uppermost  blossoms  and  fruits  to  receive  the  unbro- 
ken rays  of  the  Sun,  which  one  might  be  tempted  to  think  are-con- 
veyed from  ilower  to  flower,  and  from  fiiiit  to  fruit,  so  rich  and 
balmy  are  all.  The  pulp  of  these  fruits  quenches  your  thirst  at 
once,  and  the  very  air  you  breathe  in  such  a  place  refreshes  and 
re-invigorates  you.  Their  occurrence  is  a  sure  indication  of  good 
land,  which  in  the  South-eastern  portion  of  that  country  is  rather 
scarce.  The  Seminole  Indians  and  poorer  squatters  feed  their 
horses  on  oranges,  which  these  animals  seem  to  eat  with  much 
relish.  The  immediate  vicinity  of  a  wild  Omnge  grove  is  of  some 
importance  to  the  planters,  who  have  the  fruits  collected  and 
squeezed  in  a  horse-mill.  The  juice  is  barreled  and  sent  to  differ- 
ent markets,  being  in  request  as  an  ingredient  in  cooling  drinks. 
The  straight  yomig  shoots  are  cut  and  shipped  in  bundles,  to  he 
used  as  walking-sticks. 


FLOWERS. 

Ye  are  not  silent,  beautiful  flowers ! 

Children  of  Summer,  of  sunshine  and  showers ! 

Gems  of  the  Earth  !  that  sweet  lessons  impart 

In  language  which  speaks,  thro'  the  eye  to  the  heart. 

Youth !  to  the  maid  of  thy  love,  would'st  thou  speak  1 
Praise  the  glance  of  her  eye  and  the  bloom  on  her  cheek  *? 
Gather  a  Rose  bud,  'twill  surely  convey 
All  that  thy  heart,  in  fond  language  would  say. 

Thy  faith,  will  the  Violet  surely  disclose 
As  it  blends  with  thy  gift  of  the  young  Summer  Rose. 
If  with  hope,  thy  fond  passion,  the  lov'd  one  will  bless, 
The  "  Hawthorn"  her  feelings  will  sweetly  express. 

The  Lily  that's  kiss'd  by  the  morn's  early  gale. 
The  emblem  of  purity,  pride  of  the  vale ; 
Instructs  us  as  wither'd  at  evening  it  lies, 
That  innocence  slander'd,  droops,  withers  and  dies. 

Thus,  beautiful  Nature  !  these  treasures  of  thine. 

Which,  like  gems  on  the  bosom  of  Earth,  brightly  shine. 

Not  only  of  love,  do  they  silently  tell 

But  holier  lessons  in  each  of  them  dwell. 

J.  B.  P. 


THE   SUN  FLOWER. 

Eagle  of  flowers !  I  see  thee  stand, 

And  on  the  Sun's  warm  glassy  gaze ; 
With  eye  like  his,  thy  lids  expand, 

And  fringe  their  disk  with  golden  rays : 
Though  fixed  on  Earth,  in  darkness  rooted  there, 
Light  is  thine  element,  thy  dwelling  air, 
Thy  prospect  Heaven. 

So  would  mine  eagle-soul  descry. 

Beyond  the  path  where  planets  run. 
The  light  of  immortality. 

The  splendour  of  Creation's  Sun  ; 
Though  sprung  from  Earth,  and  hastening  to  the  tomb. 
In  hope  a  flower  of  paradise  to  bloom, 
I  look  to  Heaven, 

M. 


TO  THE  HAREBELL. 

Sweet  flower!   though  many  a  ruthless  storm 

Sweep  fiercely  o'er  thy  slender  form, 

And  many  a  sturdier  plant  may  bow 

In  death  beneath  the  tempest's  blow, 

Submissive  thou,  in  pensive  guise, 

Uninjur'd  by  each  gale  shalt  rise. 

And,  deck'd  with  innocence,  remain 

The  fairest  tenant  of  the  plain : 

So  conscious  of  its  lowly  state, 

Trembles  the  heart  assail'd  by  fate; 

Yet,  when  the  freezing  blast  is  o'er, 

Settles  as  tranquil  as  before; 

While  the  proud  breast  no  peace  shall  find, 

No  refuge  for  a  troubled  mma. 


THE  CHINA  STAR 


y  E.  c. 


'Twas  late  in  Autumn — every  trace  of  Summer, 
Had  faded  from  the  landscape  long  ago ! 

The  half-froze  streamlet,  moved  with  slow,  sad  murmur- 
The  withered  leaves  were  flying  to  and  fro 

Before  the  dreary,  shrill,  unpitying  blast ; 

And  all  the  sky  above  with  clouds  were  overcast ! 

I  looked  abroad — and  o'er  my  senses  stealing 

A  desolation  like  to  Nature's  came — 
A  cold,  forsaken,  emptiness  of  feeling. 

Which  we  can  better  understand  than  name  ! 
'Twas,  as  if  all  I  loved,  at  once  had  fled — 
The  birds,  the  fields,  the  flowers,  were  unto  me  as  dead. 

Towards  my  loved  garden  with  sad  footstep  straying, 
I  turned  to  gaze,  as  on  the  face  of  death ! 

An  early  snow  to  Earth  each  shrub  was  weighing. 

And  all  looked  blighted  by  the  Autumn's  breath ; 

Not  all,  for  there,  half-hid  by  covering  pale, 

A  China  Star  blushed,  like  bride  beneath  her  veil. 


/  ^X..^  ^cA^y 


THE   CHINA    STAR.  101 

I  shook  the  bush,  and  snow-flakes  thickly  flying, 
A  score  of  fresh  and  blooming  flowers  arose  ; 

Like  spirits,  where  the  loved  in  death  are  lying, 
Or,  like  such  friends,  as  do  outlive  the  snows 

Of  sorrow's  winter — friendship's  flowers  to  weave. 

When  those  who  seemed  more  fair,  with  fortune's  summer  leave. 

I  kissed  the  flowers — ^nor  doth  it  need  conceaUng, 
Moistened  their  beauties  from  a  melting  eye  ; 

For  they  had  touched  a  fountain  fast  congealing, 
Which  in  the  secrets  of  the  heart  doth  lie  : 

Half  the  chill  desolateness  of  Autumn  fled — 

Joy  warmed  again  my  breast,  and  hope  rose  from  the  dead. 

I've  loved  all  flowers,  aye,  from  my  early  childhood— 
The  garden -buds,  that  opened  'neath  my  care ; 

The  thousand  blossoms  which  enrich  the  wild  wood, 
And  rarer  plants,  that  grace  the  gay  parterre  : 

But  most  of  all  my  love  shall  ever  be, 

Sweet  China  Star — Autumn's  "  last,  not  least,"  on  thee  ! 


TO  THE  BRAMBLE  FLOWER. 

BY    E.    ELLIOTT. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  school-boy  knows, 

Wild  Bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So,  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  Rose  ; 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  Woodbine's  flaunt,  and  Roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  bowers. 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers ; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ! 
How  delicate  thy  gauzy  full ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem ! 
How  soft  thy  voice,  when  woods  are  still, 

And  thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them  ! 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 

And  mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 


TO   THE   BRAMBLE    FLOWER.  103 

The  Primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone  ; 
The  Hawthorn  flower  is  dead  ; 
The  Violet  by  the  moss'd  gray  stone 

Hath  laid  her  wearied  head  ; 
But  thou  Wild  Bramble  !  back  dost  bring, 

In  all  their  beauteous  power, 
The  first  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring, 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 
Scorn'd  Bramble  of  the  brake  !  once  more 

Thou  bid'st  me  be  a  boy, 
To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er. 

In  Ireedom  and  in  joy. 


VIOLETS 


L.    E.    L. 


Violets ! — deep-blue  Violets ! 

April's  loveliest  coronets! 

There  are  no  flowers  grow  in  the  vale, 

Kiss'd  by  the  dew,  woo'd  by  the  gale, — 

None  by  the  dew  ol'  the  twilight  wet, 

So  sweet  as  the  deep-blue  Violet; 

I  do  remember  how  sweet  a  breath 

Came  with  the  azure  light  of  a  wreath 

That  hung  round  the  wild  harp's  golden  chords. 

Which  rang  to  my  dark-eyed  lover's  words. 

I  have  seen  that  dear  harp  roll'd 

With  gems  of  the  East  and  bands  of  gold ; 

But  it  never  was  sweeter  than  when  set 

With  leaves  of  the  deep-blue  Violet ! 

And  when  the  grave  shall  open  for  me, — 

I  care  not  how  soon  that  time  may  be, — 

Never  a  Rose  shall  grow  on  that  tomb. 

It  breaths  too  much  of  hope  and  of  bloom; 

But  there  be  that  flower's  meek  regret. 

The  bending  and  deep-blue  Violet! 


HOME  USE 
CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

MAIN  LIBRARY 

Vmonth  loans  ""ay  *>c  7^^^^^^    bringing  books 

*- BOOKS. e„^.«.,«r""^ 


-r -noi A-40wi-8,'75 


J.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD31imifl7 


'isrtiiii^iii:!^ 


m  » 


^^S^yJjiypS 


1?* 


fe^^Tf 


^~)cm^'M 


